She was drowned. It was such a comfort. So fond of the water. She was quite a famous digh-hiver. So embarrassing, you know. The costume I mean. I should blush all over."
"I am afraid I could not take the risk," said Drewitt. "One is at such disadvantage with a spirit. Fortunately in this world people have the grace to say behind your back what a spirit would most likely say to your face."
Mr. Quelch shook his head dolefully, as he laid his black moustache affectionately upon a spoonful of white soup.
As Lola continued to chat with Drewitt, Beresford found his thoughts slipping back to the days at Folkestone. She seemed so different here from the gay, irresponsible girl he had known during the last three or four days of their stay.
"Suicide is a harsh name for a disinclination to wear something that we have grown out of," he heard Drewitt say.
He looked across. Drewitt was toying with a saltspoon, whilst Lola was engaged in crumbling a piece of bread between her fingers.
"Such a dreadful thing, suicide," burst in Mrs. Crisp. "A man died in my bath at Brighton. At least, the bath I used. Thrut his coat one morning. So thoughtless for others. Some people read in them. So bad for the books, and they are so cross at the libraries if there is a page or two missing." She turned to Mr. Quelch and proceeded to spray him.
