"Mr Crimble was unfortunate, my dear," said Mrs Monnerie complacently, "because he cut his throat."
"Ach! how horrible. How can you say such things! Get down, you little silly! Please, Aunt Alice, there must be something pleasanter to talk about than that? Everybody knows about the hideous old Sir Jasper Goodge; so it doesn't much matter what one says of him. But...." In spite of her command the little dog still gloated on her fingers.
"There may be things pleasanter, my dear Susan," returned Mrs Monnerie complacently, "but there are few so illuminating. In Greek tragedy, I used to be told, all such horrors have the effect of what is called a purgation. Did Mr Crimble seem that kind of young man, my dear? And why was he so impetuous?"
"I think, Mrs Monnerie," said I, "he was in trouble."
"H'm," said she. "He had a very sallow look, I remember. So he discussed his troubles? But not with you, my fairy?"
"Surely, Aunt Alice," exclaimed Susan hotly, "it isn't quite fair or nice to bring back such ghastly memories. Why," she touched my hand with the tips of her light fingers, "she is quite cold already."
"Poppet's hands are always cold," replied her aunt imperturbably. "And I suspect that she and I know more about this wicked world than has brought shadows to your young brow. We'll return to Mr Crimble, my dear, when Susan is butterflying elsewhere. She is so shockingly easily shocked."
But it was Susan herself who returned to the subject. She came into my room where I sat reading—a collection of the tiniest little books in the most sumptuous gilt morocco had been yet another of Mrs Monnerie's kindnesses—and she stood for a moment musing out through my silk window blinds at the vast zinc tank on the roof.
"Was that true?" she said at last. "Did you really know some one who killed himself? Who was he? What was he like?"