“What manager?” said Miss Pinnegar, short, silent, and inevitable in the doorway.
But James was in one of his abstractions, his trances.
“What manager?” persisted Miss Pinnegar.
But he still bent unknowing over his plate and gobbled his Irish stew.
“Mr. Houghton!” said Miss Pinnegar, in a sudden changed voice. She had gone a livid yellow colour. And she gave a queer, sharp little rap on the table with her hand.
James started. He looked up bewildered, as one startled out of sleep.
“Eh?” he said, gaping. “Eh?”
“Answer me,” said Miss Pinnegar. “What manager?”
“Manager? Eh? Manager? What manager?”
She advanced a little nearer, menacing in her black dress. James shrank.