“Good evening, sir,” he said, “I thought you——”
He stopped, for he knew that the old man was dead. He had known it before he began to speak, but the sound of his voice brought home to him the mockery of words. Raising the cold right hand, he laid The Rise and Fall of British Industry beneath it.
The light died down. The glow sank into the gloom. He crept away, told the woman next door that Lunt was dead, and she said she would go at once to the crowner’s office.
[VIII
RITA AND JOE]
And it seemed the very door-hinge pitied
All that was left of a woman once,
Holding at least its tongue for the nonce.
ANN had always known Old Lunt. As far back as she could remember the mews had been her playground, and the old man coming and going had been a part of the scene.
She seemed to connect the silence that visited her mate after his death with him, for she filled it with reminiscence and stories about him. He used to sing queer old songs, and sometimes he could be persuaded to tell about the country where he came from and flowers and birds; yarns about his father’s farm and the happiness he had had on it until it came into his brother’s hands, and his brother had gone into the manufacturing. Then there was no home for him in the old stone house.