"Does he live near here?"
"Yes," said Merrill. "Between Petersfield and Midhurst. He's got a beautiful place. And now you darling," she said, "tell me truly why you came down. Much as you love my beaux yeux I know it wasn't for them."
"It was to fill them with tears," said Ben.
"What do you mean?" Merrill asked anxiously. "What has happened?"
"Egbert," said Ben.
"Egbert? Not dead?" said Merrill.
"Yes," said Ben. "In America, pneumonia."
"Merciful heavens!" Merrill exclaimed.
Grief and joy can inhabit amicably a very small house. But in Merrill's case grief was rather more like pity, and joy a consciousness of release. Only a dazed consciousness, though, at the moment.
"Poor Egbert, poor old Egbert," she murmured. "He didn't have much fun." And then, "Poor Egbert, what a long way to go to die!"