When the carpenter concluded his recital, Jonathan was for a moment lost in reflection. Take the one that struck him at this moment. Fiercely defensive, as usual. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. To-night they say he will be conscious. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. She heard the television blaring away.
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