"He played chess, and went for long walks and he read aloud—Rossetti and Browning."
"Just what I would expect."
"You need not scoff; you read to us yourself—once upon a time."
"True, oh, Angel; but then—I was in love."
"Were you?"
"Certainly I was. Shall I read to you now?" picking up the local paper. "We are a little late this morning; my horse had to be shod."
"Yes, do read," assented his wife; "but there is never anything in the paper now, but the plague—and the rupee."
"I say, listen to this," he exclaimed, beginning to read. "'Sad Accident at Suchapore.' Why, you must have met her."
"I don't in the least know what you mean, and I hope I do not."
"It's a Miss Cuffe. 'We regret to record a fatal carriage accident at Suchapore, which resulted in the death of Miss Mabel Cuffe, recently arrived from England. She and a friend were driving in a dogcart, when the horse took fright at an elephant, bolted, and upset the cart. The unfortunate girl was thrown out, and killed on the spot. This painful incident has thrown a gloom over the entire station.'"