She shrugged her shoulders.
“Eels get used to skinning. It’s not life, of course. But I have to make the best of it, and there’s no help.”
“Ah, yes, there is!” said her companion, intending to imply the spiritual, but half hoping she would construe it into the material consolation.
“What do you mean?” she asked simply.
“Why,” he said, stammering and blushing furiously, and giving away his case at once, “with your youth, and—and beauty—O, forgive me! I am a little confused.”
“Where do you live?” she said, fixing him with her large eyes.
“At Clapton,” he murmured.
“It sounds most joyous,” she said, clasping her hands.
Hardly knowing what he did, he pulled the curtain away from the recess by which they stood, and instantly staggered back. The housekeeper, who, foreseeing his act, had crept up inquisitively behind, gave a mortal gasp, and Miss Robin a faint shriek—for, stretched lifeless and livid on a couch within, lay the stark body of a man.
For a minute they all stood staring, frozen with horror; then Mrs. Gaunt began to wring her hands.