"Poor?" asked Maggie.
"Yes. He's queer in his head, you know," said Paul. "Quite harmless, but he has the strangest ideas."
Maggie noticed then that Grace shivered and the whole of her face worked with an odd emotion of horror and disgust.
"He should have been shut up somewhere," she said. "It's disgraceful letting him walk about everywhere just like any one else."
"Shut up!" cried Maggie. "Oh, no! I don't think any one ought to be shut up for anything."
"My dear Maggie!" said Paul in his fatherly protecting voice. "No prisons? Think what would become of us all."
"Oh!" said Maggie impatiently, "I'm not practical of course, I don't know what one should do, but I do know that no one should be shut up."
"Chut-chut—" said Grace.
Now this "Chut, chut," may seem a very little thing, but very little things are sometimes of great importance. Marriages have been wrecked on an irritating cough and happy homes ruined by a shuffle. Grace had said "Chut, chut," for a great many years and to many people. It expressed scorn and contempt and implied a vast store of superior knowledge. Grace herself had no idea of the irritating nature of this exclamation, she would have been entirely amazed did you explain to her that it had more to do with her unpopularity in Skeaton than any other thing. She had even said "Chut, chut," to Mrs. Constantine.
But she said it to Maggie more than to any other person. When she had been in the house a few days she said to her brother: