"After all, it wouldn't be far!" said Agatha, thinking of the depth of the small balcony—one so near the ground.
"My dear girl, consider! Even the very doughtiest scientists have failed to find the number of descending acres that divide our comparatively pleasant home from—-"
"From what?"
"Well," said Mr. Browne, "really I hardly like to name it in a select assembly like this. But I believe nasty people call it— hell!"
"Oh, Dicky!" said Agatha. He was an old friend of hers. He was an old friend of a lot of people. One had only to know Dicky Browne for ten days to be quite a century-old friend of his. At this moment Lord Ambert strolled towards them and up to Elfrida.
"I knew it would startle you, but you insisted," said Dicky Browne reproachfully.
"What nonsense!" said Elfrida. "You know auntie was talking of this sad affair about Mrs. Darkham."
"Yes," said the curate gravely. "She is dying, I hear, poor soul!"
"Oh no!" from all, which did not mean a contradiction.
"I am sorry to say it is true. I heard this morning there was no hope."