"The sexton has begun a grave for old Betty Goodman, and it is unfinished. He must dig another." He turned over the wheelbarrow and shot its contents into the grave.
"But what are you doing?" again asked Joseph.
"Burying the Mitre hymnals," replied the vicar.
The clock struck a quarter to nine.
"I must hurry!" exclaimed Joseph.
On reaching his lodgings he found Major Dolgelly Jones in his sitting-room, sitting on the edge of his table tossing up a tennis-ball. In the armchair, invisible to the major, reclined Lady Mabel.
"I am so sorry to be late," apologised Joseph. "How are you, sir?"
"Below par. I have been so ever since you put me into your book. I have no appetite for golf. I can do nothing to pass the weary hours but toss up and down a tennis-ball."
"I hope——" began Joseph; and then a horror seized on him. He had no personality of his creation left but that of Lady Mabel. Would it be possible to translate that into the major?
He remained silent, musing for a while, and then said hesitatingly to the lady: "Here, my lady, is the body you are to individualise."