it in: an’ they say with idylls, eating peaches in our close.”
Then there was silence, while the clock throbbed heavily, and outside a wild bird called, and was still; softly the ashes rustled lower in the grate.
“She said it ended well—but what’s the good of death—what’s the good of that?” He turned his face to the ashes in the grate, and sat brooding.
Outside, among the trees, some wild animal set up a thin, wailing cry.
“Damn that row!” said I, stirring, looking also into the grey fire.
“It’s some stoat or weasel, or something. It’s been going on like that for nearly a week. I’ve shot in the trees ever so many times. There were two—one’s gone.”
Continuously, through the heavy, chilling silence, came the miserable crying from the darkness among the trees.
“You know,” he said, “she hated me this afternoon, and I hated her——”
It was midnight, full of sick thoughts.
“It is no good,” said I. “Go to bed—it will be morning in a few hours.”
