"In the old days down there, I'd as soon have gone to live in a Tartar's house as in hers. But weren't her teas and toasted muffins good! Here, in this desert of a place--and it's worse of a desert to me than Port Natal--to get into her house will seem like getting into home again."
Mr. Brown, looking off his work to refer to a paper by his side, took the opportunity to direct a glance at the opposite desk. Whether Roland took it to himself or not, he applied sedulously for a couple of minutes to his writing.
"I say, Hurst, what a row there is about that dead Mr. Ollivera!"
"Where's the row?"
"Well, it seems to crop up everywhere. Jenner talked of it; she talked of it; I hear that other Mr. Ollivera talks of it. You were in the thick of it, they say."
Hurst nodded. "My father was the surgeon fetched to him when he was found dead, and had to give evidence at the inquest. I went to see him buried; it was a scene. They stole a march on us, though."
"Who did?"
"They let us all disperse, and then went and read the burial service over the grave; Ollivera the clergyman, and three or four more. Arthur Channing was one."
"Arthur Channing!"
Had any close observer been in the office, he might perchance have noticed that while Mr. Brown's eyes still sought his work, his pen had ceased to play. His lips were slightly parted; his ears were cocked; the tale evidently bore for him as great an interest as it did for the speakers--an interest he did not choose should be seen. Had they been speaking aloud, he would have checked the conversation at once with an intimation that it could not concern anybody: as they spoke covertly, he listened at leisure. Mr. Hurst resumed.