“I had a letter last night,” she said. “I didn’t tell you at once, because it’s such a vulgar habit to blurt out news. I don’t know whether I have mentioned my son Samuel to you?”
“You have,” said Courtesy.
“So have I,” added the gardener.
“His house has played him false—I knew it would. One of the ceilings gave way—on to Samuel. Him and his house—he always was a fool. I believe he thought the Almighty built his house for him.”
“Yes, but what happened to Samuel?”
“I told you—the ceiling fell on him.”
“Yes, but what is the result?”
“Oh, the rest of the house is still standing. It was only one of the ceilings. He put the billiard table upstairs, and probably had his rafters made of bamboo.”
“Yes, but I mean what was the result as far as Samuel was concerned?”
“He was concussion. There have been one or two people staying in the house since he started the atrocious practice of advertising, and they had him taken to a hospital. My letter is from the matron.”