Little as Masters had heard, he was the whole day trying to digest it. Material for thought was there: a pregnancy of horrible suggestions.
As to his work, he did not write a line; could not read a paragraph. After the manner of a caged beast walked up and down the room. When at last he sat, sheer exhaustion was the compelling force.
His mid-day meal was turned over on his plate; any idea of eating it was out of the question; it was taken away practically untouched. He had no room for physical food; he was so very full just then of mental provender. One dominating thought reigned over all others. What should—what could he do?
His habit was to drink a cup of tea in the early afternoon. His landlady entered bearing a little tray. Whilst she was spreading its contents, the thoughts consuming him found vent. He said:
"Don't go away—for a moment. I want to ask you something."
"Yes, sir?"
"You know Ivy Cottage—on the front? Do you know who lives there?"
She looked at him for a moment before answering. An autumn bird needs careful handling; if it takes flight the nest remains empty till the following summer. She passed her tongue over the thin lips which framed it; said warily:
"No, sir. That is to say, not their present names."
Memory's finger pointed out the conversation of the morning over the garden wall; this woman's share in it. He knew she was lying. His anger against things in general was smouldering; something to let it loose on would be a relief. Why this deceit and mystery?