“Has he come back?” said the Resident, hastily, after the customary salutations.
“No, he has not come back,” said Mrs Bolter, rather excitedly.
“Alas! no, he has not returned,” said Mrs Barlow, in tragic tones. “I fear we shall never see him more.”
“Are you speaking of Dr Bolter, madam?” said the Resident, wonderingly.
“Of the doctor, sir? No!” cried Mrs Barlow, indignantly, “but of the chaplain.”
“Oh!” said the Resident, and a feeling of compunction entered his breast to think how small a part Mr Rosebury had seemed to play in this life-drama, and how little he had been missed.
“Captain Hilton,” said little Mrs Bolter, taking the young officer aside to the window, while her visitor was talking to Mr Harley, “it’s a shame to trouble you with my affairs directly you have come out of trouble yourself, and just as you are very busy, but if someone does not take that woman away I shall go mad!”
“Go mad, Mrs Bolter?”
“Yes; go mad—I can’t help it. I’m worried enough about the disappearance of my poor brother Arthur; then I am forsaken in the most cruel way by my husband; and as if that was not enough, and just when I am imagining him to be suffering from fever, or crocodiles, or Malay people, or being drowned, that dreadful woman comes and torments me almost to death.”
“What, Mrs Barlow? Well, but surely, if you give her a hint—”