"I am not sure, Jane, but it will be better to--to--" he stopped, seemingly intent on treading a stone into the path--"to make the change now," he went on, "and get the bother over. It must come, you know."
"Not yet; no need to do it yet," she quickly answered. "Let it be put off as long as it can be. I dread it frightfully."
"Yes, that's it: you are tormenting yourself into fiddle-strings. Don't be foolish, Jane. It is I who shall have to bear the storm, not you: and my back's broad enough, I hope."
She sighed deeply: her pale, thoughtful, pretty face cast up in sad apprehension towards the blue autumn sky. A change came over its expression: some remembrance seemed suddenly to occur to her.
"Have you heard any news about Walter Dance?" she asked with animation. "As I came down the cliff this morning, Mrs. Bent was leaving the baker's with some hot rolls in her apron, and she crossed over to tell me that Walter had shot himself accidentally at the chapel ruins in the middle of the night. Is it true?"
"Shot himself instead of a sea-bird," slightingly responded Mr. Harry.
"And in the chapel ruins?"
"I hear he says so."
"But--that is not likely to be the truth, is it?"
"How should I know, Jane?"