This was to research the map for rest-houses and for fortunes that might be won after the ogre castle had been passed.
Mary conned and peered until the strain squeezed a little moisture in her eyes. “I don't know,” she said faintly.
Her bold George had to know. “It won't be for very long, dear old girl. You must find another situation. Till then a lodging. I know a place where a man I know used to have digs. A jolly old landlady. I'll raise some money—I'll borrow it.”
Mary tried to brighten. “Yes, and I'll go to that agency again. I must, because I shall have no character, you see. I'll tell her everything quite truthfully, and I think she'll be nice.”
“It's no good waiting,” George said. His voice had the sound of a funeral bell.
Mary arose slowly, white. She said: “Come along.”
With a tumbril rumble in their ears, the children dancing ahead, they started for Palace Gardens.
IV.
The groans and curses of her adored Bob, his bulgy mouth and shutting eyes, his tender nose and the encrimsoned water where he had layed his wounds—these had so acted upon Mrs. Chater's nerves, plunged her into such vortex of hysteria, that the manner of her reception of Mary was true reflection of her fears, nothing dissembled.
Withdrawing her agitated face from the dining-room window as Mary and the children approached, she bounded heavily to the door; flung it ajar; collapsed to her knees upon the mat; clasped David and Angela to that heaving bosom.