Or the personal intimate note. “Dunno wha’ you’ll say t’me, Tilda, when you hear what-togottasay. Thur’ly bad news. Seems they los’ our Artie up there—clean los’ ’im. Can’t fine ’im nowhere tall.”
Or the authoritative kindly. “Tilda—you go’ control yourself. Go’ show whad you made of. Our boy—’e’s—hic—los’.”
Then he addressed the park at large with a sudden despair. “Don’ care wha’ I say, she’ll blame it on to me. I know ’er!”
After that the enormous pathos of the situation got hold of him. “Poor lill’ chap,” he said. “Poor lill’ fell’,” and shed a few natural tears.
“Loved ’im jessis mione son.”
As the circumambient night made no reply he repeated the remark in a louder, almost domineering tone....
He spent some time trying to climb the garden wall because the door did not seem to be in the usual place. (Have to enquire about that in the morning. Difficult to see everything is all right when one is so bereaved). But finally he came on the door round a corner.
He told his wife merely that he intended to have a peaceful night, and took off his boots in a defiant and intermittent manner.
The morning would be soon enough.
She looked at him pretty hard, and he looked at her ever and again, but she never made a guess at it.