“Where is Mr. Lansing?” asked Sidney, as Temperance stood holding the tray under one arm with its edge resting upon her hip. “He will think I am very lazy.”
“He’s gone over to Brixton to find out when The Body will arrive,” said Temperance.
Poor Len! In life he had been “that Len Simpson,” and not one of his neighbours would have crossed the threshold to greet him, unless prompted by that curiosity which leads us to pry into the misdeeds of others. Now he was a Body, and more than one of the Dole people had left early like Mr. Lansing upon the odd chance of meeting his corpse at Brixton.
Ah, poor, inconsistent humanity which fills dead hands with flowers and denies eager palms one rose, and doubtless these things must be. Yet we can imagine that a higher race than we might well make mock of our too severe judgments—our uncomprehending judgments, and our tardy tendernesses.
“You will make your passes for Mr. Martin, won’t you, Vashti?” said Mabella, “and Temperance and I will see that you are left quiet. Vashti is a witch, you know,” she continued to Sidney; “she will steal your headache with the tips of her fingers.”
Temperance snorted and entered the house without more ado.
Mabella nodded and smiled and followed her.
“I can’t abear them passes and performances,” said Temperance to Mabella. “It gives me the shivers. Vashti commenced on me onct when I had neuralgia and I was asettin’ there thinkin’ when I got better I’d make some new pillars out of the geese feathers, and all at onct Vashti’s eyes began to grow bigger and bigger—just like a cat’s. They’re cat green Vashti’s eyes is, call ’em what you like—and her hands apassin’ over my forrit was just like cat’s paws, afeelin’ and afeelin’ before it digs its claws in. My! I expected every minnit to feel ’em in my brains, and with it all I was that sleepy. No, for me I’ll stick to camfire and sich.”
“Who’s a silly, Temperance?” demanded Mabella.