Mr. Posket.
She lost her first husband about twelve months ago in India. He was an army contractor.
Beatie.
[To Cis at the piano.] I must go now—there’s no excuse for staying any longer.
Cis.
[To her disconsolately.] What the deuce shall I do?
Mr. Posket.
[Pouring out milk.] Dear me, this milk seems very poor. When he died, she came to England, placed her boy at a school in Brighton, and then moved about quietly from place to place, drinking——
[Sips tea.