if you ask me I should say you had

“It doesn’t seem to make much difference how you put it down,” said Vavasor. “The total is what I look at.”
“Just so, Mr Vavasor; just so. The total is what I looks at too. And I has to look at it a deuced long time before I gets it. I ain’t a got it yet; have I, Mr Vavasor?”
“Well; if you ask me I should say you had,” said George. “I know I paid Mr Scruby three hundred pounds on your account.”
“And I got every shilling of it, Mr Vavasor. I’m not a going to deny the money, Mr Vavasor. You’ll never find me doing that. I’m as round as your hat, and as square as your elbow — I am. Mr Scruby knows me; don’t you, Mr Scruby?”
“Perhaps I know you too well, Grimes.”
“No, you don’t, Mr Scruby; not a bit too well. Nor I don’t know you too well, either. I respect you, Mr Scruby, because you’re a man as understands your business. But as I was saying, what’s three hundred pounds when a man’s bill is three hundred and ninety-two thirteen and fourpence?”
“I thought that was all settled, Mr Scruby,” said Vavasor.
“Why, you see, Mr Vavasor, it’s very hard to settle these things. If you ask me whether Mr Grimes here can sue you for the balance, I tell you very plainly that he can’t. We were a little short of money when we came to a settlement, as is generally the case at such times, and so we took Mr Grimes’s receipt for three hundred pounds.”
“Now, Mr Scruby!” and the publican as he made this appeal looked at the attorney with an expression of countenance which was absolutely eloquent. “Are you going to put me off with such an excuse as that?” so the look spoke plainly enough. “Are you going to bring up my own signature against me, when you know very well that I shouldn’t have got a shilling at all for the next twelve months if I hadn’t given it? Oh, Mr Scruby!” That’s what Mr Grimes’ look said, and both Mr Scruby and Mr Vavasor understood it perfectly,
“In full of all demands,” said Mr Scruby, with a slight tone of triumph in his voice, as though to show that Grimes’ appeal had no effect at all upon his conscience. “If you were to go into a court of law, Grimes, you wouldn’t have a leg to stand upon.”
“A court of law? Who’s a going to law with the governor, I should like to know? not I; not if he didn’t pay me them ninety-two pounds thirteen and fourpence for the next five years.”
“Five years or fifteen would make no difference,” said Scruby. “You couldn’t do it.”
“And I ain’t a going to try. That’s not the ticket I’ve come here about, Mr Vavasor, this blessed Sunday morning. Going to law, indeed! But, Mr Scruby, I’ve got a family.”
“Not in the vale of Taunton, I hope,” said George.
“They is at the Handsome Man in the Brompton Road, Mr Vavasor; and I always feels that I owes my first duty to them. If a man don’t work for his family, what do he work for?”
“Come, come, Grimes,” said Mr Scruby. “What is it you’re at? Out with it, and don’t keep us here all day.”
“What is it I’m at, Mr Scruby? As if you didn’t know very well what I’m at. There’s my house — in all them Chelsea Districts it’s the most convenientest of any public as is open for all manner of election purposes. That’s given up to it.”
“And what next?” said Scruby.

Mr Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes

“So happy that you’ll try it again some day; won’t you?”
“Never, Mr Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love — love of that sort — is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint.”
“But, Mrs Greenow,” — and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table — “But, Mrs Greenow, care killed a cat, you know.”
“Isn’t there though? I’ll tell you what, Mrs Greenow; I’m in earnest, I am indeed. If you’ll inquire, you’ll find there isn’t a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don’t pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There’s not an acre that won’t do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they’d rent to pay. They’ve borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don’t owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain’t any of my paper flying about, Mrs Greenow. I’m Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it’s all my own.” Mr Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. “It’s all my own, Mrs Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you’ll please to take it;” then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain.
“What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don’t do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I’ll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain’t a bedroom in my house — not one of the front ones — that isn’t mahogany furnished!”
“What’s furniture to me?” said Mrs Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes.
Just at this moment Maria’s mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and a half away from the widow’s side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. “Mr Cheesacre and I are talking about farming,” she said.
“I prefer the early mangels,” said Mrs Greenow. “I don’t think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs Walker?”
“I daresay Mr Cheesacre understands what he’s about when he’s at home,” said the lady.
“I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk,” said the gentleman.

There was a great unpacking, during which Captain Bellfield

There had been a pretence of fishing, but no fish had been caught. It was soon found that such an amusement would interfere with the ladies’ dresses, and the affairs had become too serious to allow of any trivial interruption. “I really think, Mr Cheesacre,” an anxious mother had said, “that you’d better give it up. The water off the nasty cord has got all over Maria’s dress, already.” Maria made a faint protest that it did not signify in the least; but the fishing was given up — not without an inward feeling on the part of Mr Cheesacre that if Maria chose to come out with him in his boat, having been invited especially to fish, she ought to have put up with the natural results. “There are people who like to take everything and never like to give anything,” he said to Kate afterwards, as he was walking up with her to the picnic dinner. But he was unreasonable and unjust. The girls had graced his party with their best hats and freshest muslins, not that they might see him catch a mackerel, but that they might flirt and dance to the best advantage. “You can’t suppose that any girl will like to be drenched with sea-water when she has taken so much trouble with her starch,” said Kate. “Then she shouldn’t come fishing,” said Mr Cheesacre. “I hate such airs.”
But when they arrived at the old boat, Mrs Greenow shone forth pre-eminently as the mistress of the occasion, altogether overshadowing Mr Cheesacre by the extent of her authority. There was a little contest for supremacy between them, invisible to the eyes of the multitude; but Mr Cheesacre in such a matter had not a chance against Mrs Greenow. I am disposed to think that she would have reigned even though she had not contributed the eatables; but with that point in her favour, she was able to make herself supreme. Jeannette, too, was her servant, which was a great thing. Mr Cheesacre soon gave way; and though he bustled about and was conspicuous, he bustled about in obedience to orders received, and became a head servant. Captain Bellfield also made himself useful, but he drove Mr Cheesacre into paroxysms of suppressed anger by giving directions, and by having those directions obeyed. A man to whom he had lent twenty pounds the day before yesterday, and who had not contributed so much as a bottle of champagne!
“We’re to dine at four, and now it’s half past three,” said Mrs Greenow, addressing herself to the multitude.
“Yes, we’ll dine at four,” said Mr Cheesacre. “And as for the music, I’ve ordered it to be here punctual at half past five. We’re to have three horns, cymbals, triangle, and a drum.”
“It’s odd if I don’t know more about wine than the boots from the hotel,” said Bellfield. This allusion to the boots almost cowed Mr Cheesacre, and made him turn away, leaving Bellfield with the widow.
There was a great unpacking, during which Captain Bellfield and Mrs Greenow constantly had their heads in the same hamper. I by no means intend to insinuate that there was anything wrong in this. People engaged together in unpacking pies and cold chickens must have their heads in the same hamper. But a great intimacy was thereby produced, and the widow seemed to have laid aside altogether that prejudice of hers with reference to the washerwoman. There was a long table placed on the sand, sheltered by the upturned boat from the land side, but open towards the sea, and over this, supported on poles, there was an awning. Upon the whole the arrangement was not an uncomfortable one for people who had selected so very uncomfortable a dining-room as the sand of the sea-shore. Much was certainly due to Mr Cheesacre for the expenditure he had incurred — and something perhaps to Captain Bellfield for his ingenuity in having suggested it.

I am glad you have settled your affair

Mr Grey’s answer to Alice Vavasor’s letter, which was duly sent by return of the post and duly received on the morning after Lady Macleod’s visit, may perhaps be taken as giving a sample of his worthiness. It was dated from Nethercoats, a small country house in Cambridgeshire which belonged to him at which he already spent much of his time, and at which he intended to live altogether after his marriage.
Nethercoats, June, 186-.
DEAREST ALICE,
I am glad you have settled your affairs — foreign affairs, I mean — so much to your mind. As to your home affairs they are not, to my thinking, quite so satisfactorily arranged. But as I am a party interested in the latter my opinion may perhaps have an undue bias. Touching the tour, I quite agree with you that you and Kate would have been uncomfortable alone. It’s a very fine theory, that of women being able to get along without men as well as with them; but, like other fine theories, it will be found very troublesome by those who first put it in practice. Gloved hands, petticoats, feminine softness, and the general homage paid to beauty, all stand in the way of success. These things may perhaps some day be got rid of, and possibly with advantage; but while young ladies are still encumbered with them a male companion will always be found to be a comfort. I don’t quite know whether your cousin George is the best possible knight you might have chosen. I should consider myself to be infinitely preferable, had my going been upon the cards. Were you in danger of meeting Paynim foes, he, no doubt, would kill them off much quicker than I could do, and would be much more serviceable in liberating you from the dungeons of oppressors, or even from stray tigers in the Swiss forests. But I doubt his being punctual with the luggage. He will want you or Kate to keep the accounts, if any are kept. He will be slow in getting you glasses of water at the railway stations, and will always keep you waiting at breakfast. I hold that a man with two ladies on a tour should be an absolute slave to them, or they will not fully enjoy themselves. He should simply be an upper servant, with the privilege of sitting at the same table with his mistresses. I have my doubts as to whether your cousin is fit for the place; but, as to myself, it is just the thing that I was made for. Luckily, however, neither you nor Kate are without wills of your own, and perhaps you may be able to reduce Mr Vavasor to obedience.
As to the home affairs I have very little to say here — in this letter. I shall of course run up and see you before you start, and shall probably stay a week in town. I know I ought not to do so, as it will be a week of idleness, and yet not a week of happiness. I’d sooner have an hour with you in the country than a whole day in London. And I always feel in town that I’ve too much to do to allow of my doing anything. If it were sheer idleness I could enjoy it, but it is a feverish idleness, in which one is driven here and there, expecting some gratification which not only never comes, but which never even begins to come. I will, however, undergo a week of it — say the last seven days of this month, and shall trust to you to recompense me by as much of yourself as your town doings will permit.
And now again as to those home affairs. If I say nothing now I believe you will understand why I refrain. You have cunningly just left me to imply, from what you say, that all my arguments have been of no avail; but you do not answer them, or even tell me that you have decided. I shall therefore imply nothing, and still lust to my personal eloquence for success. Or rather not trust — not trust, but hope.

She looked. She could not show him what she wished to make of it

　　He had raised his hand. He had slightly narrowed his clear blue eyes,when Lily, rousing herself, saw what he was at, and winced like a dogwho sees a hand raised to strike it. She would have snatched her pictureoff the easel, but she said to herself, One must. She braced herself tostand the awful trial of some one looking at her picture. One must, shesaid, one must. And if it must be seen, Mr Bankes was less alarming thananother. But that any other eyes should see the residue of her thirty-threeyears, the deposit of each day's living mixed with something more secretthan she had ever spoken or shown in the course of all those days was anagony. At the same time it was immensely exciting.
　　Nothing could be cooler and quieter. Taking out a pen-knife, MrBankes tapped the canvas with the bone handle. What did she wish toindicate by the triangular purple shape, "just there"? he asked.
　　It was Mrs Ramsay reading to James, she said. She knew his objection—that no one could tell it for a human shape. But she had made no attempt at likeness, she said. For what reason had she introduced themthen? he asked. Why indeed?—except that if there, in that corner, it wasbright, here, in this, she felt the need of darkness. Simple, obvious, commonplace,as it was, Mr Bankes was interested. Mother and childthen—objects of universal veneration, and in this case the mother wasfamous for her beauty—might be reduced, he pondered, to a purpleshadow without irreverence.
　　But the picture was not of them, she said. Or, not in his sense. Therewere other senses too in which one might reverence them. By a shadowhere and a light there, for instance. Her tribute took that form if, as shevaguely supposed, a picture must be a tribute. A mother and child mightbe reduced to a shadow without irreverence. A light here required ashadow there. He considered. He was interested. He took it scientificallyin complete good faith. The truth was that all his prejudices were on theother side, he explained. The largest picture in his drawing-room, whichpainters had praised, and valued at a higher price than he had given forit, was of the cherry trees in blossom on the banks of the Kennet. He hadspent his honeymoon on the banks of the Kennet, he said. Lily mustcome and see that picture, he said. But now—he turned, with his glassesraised to the scientific examination of her canvas. The question being oneof the relations of masses, of lights and shadows, which, to be honest, hehad never considered before, he would like to have it explained—whatthen did she wish to make of it? And he indicated the scene before them.
　　She looked. She could not show him what she wished to make of it,could not see it even herself, without a brush in her hand. She took uponce more her old painting position with the dim eyes and the absentmindedmanner, subduing all her impressions as a woman to somethingmuch more general; becoming once more under the power of that visionwhich she had seen clearly once and must now grope for among hedgesand houses and mothers and children—her picture. It was a question,she remembered, how to connect this mass on the right hand with thaton the left. She might do it by bringing the line of the branch across so; orbreak the vacancy in the foreground by an object (James perhaps) so. Butthe danger was that by doing that the unity of the whole might bebroken. She stopped; she did not want to bore him; she took the canvaslightly off the easel.
　　But it had been seen; it had been taken from her. This man had sharedwith her something profoundly intimate. And, thanking Mr Ramsay forit and Mrs Ramsay for it and the hour and the place, crediting the worldwith a power which she had not suspected—that one could walk away down that long gallery not alone any more but arm in arm with somebody—the strangest feeling in the world, and the most exhilarating—shenicked the catch of her paint-box to, more firmly than was necessary, andthe nick seemed to surround in a circle forever the paint-box, the lawn,Mr Bankes, and that wild villain, Cam, dashing past.

Raymond seemed to attach more importance to love

Undine had supposed that on her marriage one of the great suites of the Hotel de Chelles would be emptied of its tenants and put at her husband's disposal; but she had since learned that, even had such a plan occurred to her parents-in-law, considerations of economy would have hindered it. The old Marquis and his wife, who were content, when they came up from Burgundy in the spring, with a modest set of rooms looking out on the court of their ancestral residence, expected their son and his wife to fit themselves into the still smaller apartment which had served as Raymond's bachelor lodging. The rest of the fine old mouldering house--the tall-windowed premier on the garden, and the whole of the floor above--had been let for years to old fashioned tenants who would have been more surprised than their landlord had he suddenly proposed to dispossess them. Undine, at first, had regarded these arrangements as merely provisional. She was persuaded that, under her influence, Raymond would soon convert his parents to more modern ideas, and meanwhile she was still in the flush of a completer well-being than she had ever known, and disposed, for the moment, to make light of any inconveniences connected with it. The three months since her marriage had been more nearly like what she had dreamed of than any of her previous experiments in happiness. At last she had what she wanted, and for the first time the glow of triumph was warmed by a deeper feeling. Her husband was really charming (it was odd how he reminded her of Ralph!), and after her bitter two years of loneliness and humiliation it was delicious to find herself once more adored and protected.
The very fact that Raymond was more jealous of her than Ralph had ever been--or at any rate less reluctant to show it--gave her a keener sense of recovered power. None of the men who had been in love with her before had been so frankly possessive, or so eager for reciprocal assurances of constancy. She knew that Ralph had suffered deeply from her intimacy with Van Degen, but he had betrayed his feeling only by a more studied detachment; and Van Degen, from the first, had been contemptuously indifferent to what she did or felt when she was out of his sight. As to her earlier experiences, she had frankly forgotten them: her sentimental memories went back no farther than the beginning of her New York career.
Raymond seemed to attach more importance to love, in all its manifestations, than was usual or convenient in a husband; and she gradually began to be aware that her domination over him involved a corresponding loss of independence. Since their return to Paris she had found that she was expected to give a circumstantial report of every hour she spent away from him. She had nothing to hide, and no designs against his peace of mind except those connected with her frequent and costly sessions at the dress-makers'; but she had never before been called upon to account to any one for the use of her time, and after the first amused surprise at Raymond's always wanting to know where she had been and whom she had seen she began to be oppressed by so exacting a devotion. Her parents, from her tenderest youth, had tacitly recognized her inalienable right to "go round," and Ralph--though from motives which she divined to be different--had shown the same respect for her freedom. It was therefore disconcerting to find that Raymond expected her to choose her friends, and even her acquaintances, in conformity not only with his personal tastes but with a definite and complicated code of family prejudices and traditions; and she was especially surprised to discover that he viewed with disapproval her intimacy with the Princess Estradina.
"My cousin's extremely amusing, of course, but utterly mad and very mal entouree. Most of the people she has about her ought to be in prison or Bedlam: especially that unspeakable Madame Adelschein, who's a candidate for both. My aunt's an angel, but she's been weak enough to let Lili turn the Hotel de Dordogne into an annex of Montmartre. Of course you'll have to show yourself there now and then: in these days families like ours must hold together. But go to the reunions de famille rather than to Lili's intimate parties; go with me, or with my mother; don't let yourself be seen there alone. You're too young and good-looking to be mixed up with that crew. A woman's classed--or rather unclassed--by being known as one of Lili's set."

Take care of five Fulmers for three months

　　Take care of five Fulmers for three months! The prospect cowedher. If there had been only Junie and Geordie, the oldest andyoungest of the band, she might have felt less hesitation. Butthere was Nat, the second in age, whose motor-horn had drivenher and Nick out to the hill-side on their fatal day at theFulmers' and there were the twins, Jack and Peggy, of whom shehad kept memories almost equally disquieting. To rule thisuproarious tribe would be a sterner business than trying tobeguile Clarissa Vanderlyn's ladylike leisure; and she wouldhave refused on the spot, as she had refused once before, if theonly possible alternatives had not come to seem so much lessbearable, and if Junie, called in for advice, and standingthere, small, plain and competent, had not said in her quietgrown-up voice: "Oh, yes, I'm sure Mrs. Lansing and I canmanage while you're away--especially if she reads aloud well."Reads aloud well! The stipulation had enchanted Susy. She hadnever before known children who cared to be read aloud to; sheremembered with a shiver her attempts to interest Clarissa inanything but gossip and the fashions, and the tone in which thechild had said, showing Strefford's trinket to her father:
　　"Because I said I'd rather have it than a book."And here were children who consented to be left for three monthsby their parents, but on condition that a good reader wasprovided for them!
　　"Very well--I will! But what shall I be expected to read toyou?" she had gaily questioned; and Junie had answered, afterone of her sober pauses of reflection: "The little ones likenearly everything; but Nat and I want poetry particularly,because if we read it to ourselves we so often pronounce thepuzzling words wrong, and then it sounds so horrid.""Oh, I hope I shall pronounce them right," Susy murmured,stricken with self-distrust and humility.
　　Apparently she did; for her reading was a success, and even thetwins and Geordie, once they had grown used to her, seemed toprefer a ringing page of Henry V, or the fairy scenes from theMidsummer Night's Dream, to their own more specializedliterature, though that had also at times to be provided.
　　There were, in fact, no lulls in her life with the Fulmers; butits commotions seemed to Susy less meaningless, and thereforeless fatiguing, than those that punctuated the existence ofpeople like Altringham, Ursula Gillow, Ellie Vanderlyn and theirtrain; and the noisy uncomfortable little house at Passy wasbeginning to greet her with the eyes of home when she returnedthere after her tramps to and from the children's classes. Atany rate she had the sense of doing something useful and evennecessary, and of earning her own keep, though on so modest ascale; and when the children were in their quiet mood, anddemanded books or music (or, even, on one occasion, at thesurprising Junie's instigation, a collective visit to theLouvre, where they recognized the most unlikely pictures, andthe two elders emitted startling technical judgments, and calledtheir companion's attention to details she had not observed); onthese occasions, Susy had a surprised sense of being drawn backinto her brief life with Nick, or even still farther and deeper,into those visions of Nick's own childhood on which the triviallater years had heaped their dust.
　　It was curious to think that if he and she had remainedtogether, and she had had a child--the vision used to come toher, in her sleepless hours, when she looked at little Geordie,in his cot by her bed--their life together might have been verymuch like the life she was now leading, a small obscure businessto the outer world, but to themselves how wide and deep andcrowded!

How is this adventure to end

Dr. van Heerden expected many things and was prepared for contingencies beyond the imagination of the normally minded, but he was not prepared to find in Oliva Cresswell a pleasant travelling-companion. When a man takes a girl, against her will, from a pleasant suite at the best hotel in London, compels her at the peril of death to accompany him on a motor-car ride in the dead of the night, and when his offence is a duplication of one which had been committed less than a week before, he not unnaturally anticipates tears, supplications, or in the alternative a frigid and unapproachable silence.
To his amazement Oliva was extraordinarily cheerful and talkative and even amusing. He had kept Bridgers at the door of the car whilst he investigated the pawn-broking establishment of Messrs. Rosenblaum Bros., and had returned in triumph to discover that the girl who up to then had been taciturn and uncommunicative was in quite an amiable mood.
"I used to think," she said, "that motor-car abductions were the invention of sensational writers, but you seem to make a practice of it. You are not very original, Dr. van Heerden. I think I've told you that before."
He smiled in the darkness as the car sped smoothly through the deserted streets.
"I must plead guilty to being rather unoriginal," he said, "but I promise you that this little adventure shall not end as did the last."
"It can hardly do that," she laughed, "I can only be married once whilst Mr. Beale is alive."
"I forgot you were married," he said suddenly, then after a pause, "I suppose you will divorce him?"
"How is this adventure to end?" she demanded. "Are you going to maroon me on a desert island, or are you taking me to Germany?"
"How did you know I am trying to get to Germany?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, Mr. Beale thought so," she replied, in a tone of indifference, "he reckoned that he would catch you somewhere near the coast."
"He did, did he?" said the other calmly. "I shall deny him that pleasure. I don't intend taking you to Germany. Indeed, it is not my intention to detain you any longer than is necessary."
"For which I am truly grateful," she smiled, "but why detain me at all?"
"That is a stupid question to ask when I am sure you have no doubt in your mind as to why it is necessary to keep you close to me until I have finished my work. I think I told you some time ago," he went on, "that I had a great scheme. The other day you called me a Hun, by which I suppose you meant that I was a German. It is perfectly true that I am a German and I am a patriotic German. To me even in these days of his degradation the Kaiser is still little less than a god."
His voice quivered a little, and the girl was struck dumb with wonder that a man of such intelligence, of such a wide outlook, of such modernity, should hold to views so archaic.
"Your country ruined Germany. You have sucked us dry. To say that I hate England and hate America--for you Anglo-Saxons are one in your soulless covetousness--is to express my feelings mildly."
"But what is your scheme?" she asked.
"Briefly I will tell you, Miss Cresswell, that you may understand that to-night you accompany history and are a participant in world politics. America and England are going to pay. They are going to buy corn from my country at the price that Germany can fix. It will be a price," he cried, and did not attempt to conceal his joy, "which will ruin the Anglo-Saxon people more effectively than they ruined Germany."
"They are going to buy corn," he repeated, "at our price, corn which is stored in Germany."
"But what nonsense!" she said scornfully, "I don't know very much about harvests and things of that kind, but I know that most of the world's wheat comes from America and from Russia."
"The Russian wheat will be in German granaries," he said softly, "the American wheat--there will be no American wheat."

They gave me my month's cheque and just told me to go off

"I didn't exactly know you would be discharged this morning, but I had an idea you would be discharged at some time or other. That is why I came with my offer."
"Which, of course, you have accepted," he said quietly. "Believe me, I know nothing more than that Punsonby's have been prevailed upon to discharge you. What reason induced them to take that step, honestly I don't know."
"I just thought so," he said. "I am not going to be mysterious with you and I can only tell you that I had reasons to believe that some such step would be taken."
"It is quite mysterious enough," she said. "Do you seriously want me to work for you?"
"Do you mean to tell me that you would have waited all day to give me your address?"
"I only mean this," he replied, "that I should have waited all day."
"My address is 342 Lothbury," he went on, "342. You may begin work this afternoon and----" He hesitated.
"And I think it would be wise if you didn't tell your friend, the doctor, that I am employing you."
He was examining his finger-nails attentively as he spoke, and he did not meet her eye.
"There are many reasons," he went on. "In the first place, I have blotted my copy-book, as they say, in Krooman Mansions, and it might not rebound to your credit."
"You should have thought of that before you asked me to come to you," she said.
There was much in what he said, as the girl recognized. She blamed herself for her hasty promise, but somehow the events of the previous night had placed him on a different footing, had given him a certain indefinable position to which the inebriate Mr. Beale had not aspired.
"I am afraid I am rather bewildered by all the mystery of it," she said, "and I don't think I will come to the office to-day. To-morrow morning, at what hour?"
"Ten o'clock," he said, "I will be there to explain your duties. Your salary will be L5 a week. You will be in charge of the office, to which I very seldom go, by the way, and your work will be preparing statistical returns of the wheat-crops in all the wheat-fields of the world for the last fifty years."
"It sounds thrilling," she said, and a quick smile flashed across his face.
"It is much more thrilling than you imagine," were his parting words.
She reached Krooman Mansions just as the doctor was coming out, and he looked at her in surprise.
Should she tell him? There was no reason why she shouldn't. He had been a good friend of hers and she felt sure of his sympathy. It occurred to her at that moment that Mr. Beale had been most unsympathetic, and had not expressed one word of regret.
"To prove that it is possible it has happened," she said cheerfully.
"My dear girl, this is monstrous! What excuse did they give?"
"None." This was said with a lightness of tone which did not reflect the indignation she felt at heart.
"Did they give you no reason?"
"They gave me none. They gave me my month's cheque and just told me to go off, and off I came like the well-disciplined wage-earner I am."
"But it is monstrous," he said indignantly. "I will go and see them. I know one of the heads of the firm--at least, he is a patient of mine."
"You will do nothing of the kind," she replied firmly. "It really doesn't matter."
"What are you going to do? By Jove!" he said suddenly, "what a splendid idea! I want a clinical secretary."
The humour of it got the better of her, and she laughed in his face.
"What is the joke?" he asked.
"Oh, I am so sorry, doctor, but you mustn't think I am ungrateful, but I am beginning to regard myself as one of the plums in the labour market."
"Have you another position?" he asked quickly.
"I have just accepted one," she said, and he did not disguise his disappointment, which might even have been interpreted, were Oliva more conceited, into absolute chagrin.
"You are very quick," said he, and his voice had lost some of its enthusiasm. "What position have you taken?"
"I am going into an office in the city," she said.
"That will be dull. If you have settled it in your mind, of course, I cannot alter your decision, but I would be quite willing to give you L5 or L6 a week, and the work would be very light."
She held out her hand, and there was a twinkle in her eye.
"London is simply filled with people who want to give me L5 a week for work which is very light; really I am awfully grateful to you, doctor."

As I entered the vast kitchen, I realized that the entire height of the Aedificium enclosed an octagonal court

“I have heard it said that Aristotle did not really write that work,” William remarked, “just as he was not the author of the De causis, it has been discovered.”
“In any event it is a great book,” Severinus observed, and my master agreed most readily, not asking whether the herbalist was speaking of the De plantis or of the De causu, both works that I did not know but which, from that conversation, I deduced must be very great.
“I shall be happy,” Severinus concluded, “to have some frank conversation with you about herbs.”
“I shall be still happier,” William said, “but would we not be breaking the rule of silence, which I believe obtains in your order?”
“The Rule,” Severinus said, “has been adapted over the centuries to the requirements of the different communities. The Rule prescribed the lectio divina but not study, and yet you know how much our order has developed inquiry into divine and human affairs. Also, the Rule prescribes a common dormitory, but at times it is right that the monks have, as we do here, chances to meditate also during the night, and so each of them is given his own cell. The Rule is very rigid on the question of silence, and here with us, not only the monk who performs manual labor but also those who write or read must not converse with their brothers. But the abbey is first and foremost a community of scholars, and often it is useful for monks to exchange the accumulated treasures of their learning. All conver?sation regarding our studies is considered legitimate and profitable, provided it does not take place in the refectory or during the hours of the holy offices.”
“Had you much occasion to talk with Adelmo of Otranto?” William asked abruptly.
Severinus did not seem surprised. “I see the abbot has already spoken with you,” he said. “No. I did not converse with him often. He spent his time illuminating. I did hear him on occasion talking with other monks, Venantius of Salvemec, or Jorge of Burgos, about the nature of his work. Besides, I don’t spend my day in the scriptorium, but in my laboratory.” And he nodded toward the infirmary building.
“I understand,” William said. “So you don’t know whether Adelmo had visions.”
“Visions?”
“Like the ones your herbs induce, for example.”
Severinus stiffened. “I told you: I store the danger?ous herbs with great care.”
“That is not what I meant,” William hastened to clarify. “I was speaking of visions in general.”
“I don’t understand,” Severinus insisted.
“I was thinking that a monk who wanders at night about the Aedificium, where, by the abbot’s admission ... terrible things can happen … to those who enter during forbidden hours—well, as I say, I was thinking he might have had diabolical visions that drove him to the precipice.”
“I told you: I don’t visit the scriptorium, except when I need a book; but as a rule I have my own herbaria, which I keep in the infirmary. As I said, Adelmo was very close to Jorge, Venantius, and ... naturally, Beren?gar.”
Even I sensed the slight hesitation in Severinus’s voice. Nor did it escape my master. “Berengar? And why ‘naturally’?”
“Berengar of Arundel, the assistant librarian. They were of an age, they had been novices together, it was normal for them to have things to talk about. That is what I meant.”
“Ah, that is what you meant,” William repeated. And to my surprise he did not pursue the matter. In fact, he promptly changed the subject. “But perhaps it is time for us to visit the Aedificium. Will you act as our guide?”
“Gladly,” Severinus said, with all-too-evident relief. He led us along the side of the garden and brought us to the west fa?ade of the Aedificium.
“Facing the garden is the door leading to the kitchen,” he said, “but the kitchen occupies only the western half of the ground floor; in the other half is the refectory. And at the south entrance, which you reach from behind the choir in the church, there are two other doors leading to the kitchen and the refectory. But we can go in here, because from the kitchen we can then go on through to the refectory.”
As I entered the vast kitchen, I realized that the entire height of the Aedificium enclosed an octagonal court; I understood later that this was a kind of huge well, without any access, onto which, at each floor, opened broad windows, like the ones on the exterior. The kitchen was a vast smoke-filled entrance hall, where many servants were already busy preparing the food for supper. On a great table two of them were making a pie of greens, barley, oats, and rye, chopping turnips, cress, radishes, and carrots. Nearby, another cook had just finished poaching some fish in a mixture of wine and water, and was covering them with a sauce of sage, parsley, thyme, garlic, pepper, and salt.
Beneath the west tower an enormous oven opened, for baking bread; it was already flashing with reddish flames. In the south tower there was an immense fireplace, where great pots were boiling and spits were turning. Through the door that opened onto the barn?yard behind the church, the swineherds were entering at that, moment, carrying the meat of the slaughtered pigs. We went out through that same door and found ourselves in the yard, at the far eastern end of the plain, against the walls, where there were many buildings. Severinus explained to me that the first was the series of barns, then there stood the horses’ stables, then those for the oxen, and then chicken coops, and the covered yard for the sheep. Outside the pigpens, swine?herds were stirring a great jarful of the blood of the freshly slaughtered pigs, to keep it from coagulating. If it was stirred properly and promptly, it would remain liquid for the next few days, thanks to the cold climate, and then they would make blood puddings from it.
We re-entered the Aedificium and cast a quick glance at the refectory as we crossed it, heading toward the east tower. Of the two towers between which the refecto?ry extended, the northern one housed a fireplace, the other a circular staircase that led to the scriptorium, on the floor above. By this staircase the monks went up to their work every day, or else they used the other two staircases, less comfortable but well heated, which rose in spirals inside the fireplace here and inside the oven in the kitchen.
William asked whether we would find anyone in the scriptorium, since it was Sunday. Severinus smiled and said that work, for the Benedictine monk, is prayer. On Sunday offices lasted longer, but the monks assigned to work on books still spent some hours up there, usually engaged in fruitful exchanges of learned observations, counsel, reflections on Holy Scripture.

he so good a man

'He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you liked to accept Mr. Boarham's obliging offer, you - '
'No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if not, you might please yourself.'
'It is no matter what I said. What will you say? - that is the question. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider well before you go; and if you intend to refuse him, give me your reasons.'
'I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how, for I want to be civil and yet decided - and when I've got rid of him, I'll give you my reasons afterwards.'
'But stay, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself. Mr. Boarham is in no particular hurry, for he has little doubt of your acceptance; and I want to speak with you. Tell me, my dear, what are your objections to him? Do you deny that he is an upright, honourable man?'
'But, Helen! How many such men do you expect to meet with in the world? Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! Is this such an every-day character that you should reject the possessor of such noble qualities without a moment's hesitation? Yes, noble I may call them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how many inestimable virtues they include (and I might add many more to the list), and consider that all this is laid at your feet. It is in your power to secure this inestimable blessing for life - a worthy and excellent husband, who loves you tenderly, but not too fondly so as to blind him to your faults, and will be your guide throughout life's pilgrimage, and your partner in eternal bliss. Think how - '
'But I hate him, aunt,' said I, interrupting this unusual flow of eloquence.
'Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit? - you hate him? and he so good a man!'
'I don't hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love him so much that I wish him a better wife than I - one as good as himself, or better - if you think that possible - provided she could like him; but I never could, and therefore - '
'But why not? What objection do you find?'
'Firstly, he is at least forty years old - considerably more, I should think - and I am but eighteen; secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted in the extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly displeasing to me; and, finally, I have an aversion to his whole person that I never can surmount.'
'Then you ought to surmount it. And please to compare him for a moment with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart (which contribute nothing to the merit of the man, or to the happiness of married life, and which you have so often professed to hold in light esteem), tell me which is the better man.'
'I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think him; but we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham; and as I would rather grow, live, and die in single blessedness - than be his wife, it is but right that I should tell him so at once, and put him out of suspense - so let me go.'
'But don't give him a flat denial; he has no idea of such a thing, and it would offend him greatly: say you have no thoughts of matrimony at present - '
And without waiting for further admonitions I left the room and went to seek Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing- room, humming snatches of tunes and nibbling the end of his cane.
'My dear young lady,' said he, bowing and smirking with great complacency, 'I have your kind guardian's permission - '
'I know, sir,' said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much as possible, 'and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg to decline the honour you wish to confer, for I think we were not made for each other, as you yourself would shortly discover if the experiment were tried.'
My aunt was right. It was quite evident he had had little doubt of my acceptance, and no idea of a positive denial. He was amazed, astounded at such an answer, but too incredulous to be much offended; and after a little humming and hawing, he returned to the attack.
'I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparity between us in years, in temperament, and perhaps some other things; but let me assure you, I shall not be severe to mark the faults and foibles of a young and ardent nature such as yours, and while I acknowledge them to myself, and even rebuke them with all a father's care, believe me, no youthful lover could be more tenderly indulgent towards the object of his affections than I to you; and, on the other hand, let me hope that my more experienced years and graver habits of reflection will be no disparagement in your eyes, as I shall endeavour to make them all conducive to your happiness. Come, now! What do you say? Let us have no young lady's affectations and caprices, but speak out at once.'
'I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certain we were not made for each other.'
'No, I don't. I know you as well as I ever shall, and better than you know me, or you would never dream of uniting yourself to one so incongruous - so utterly unsuitable to you in every way.'
'But, my dear young lady, I don't look for perfection; I can excuse - '
'Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won't trespass upon your goodness. You may save your indulgence and consideration for some more worthy object, that won't tax them so heavily.'
'But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I am sure, will - '

Dylan Meserve picked Latigo for the hoax because he hiked up there

I left a message with Erica Weiss’s secretary, saying I wanted to talk aboutPatrick Hauser. Just as I hung up, Miloclicked in.
He sounded exhausted. Probably up all night on Peaty. Maybe that’s why hedidn’t bother with niceties.
“Wendell A. Chong, the guy whose van Peaty ripped off, is a softwareconsultant who used to rent office space in a building owned by the Dowds. Thevan was boosted from his reserved tenant slot at night, while Chong was workinglate. Chong collected insurance, bought himself a new car, has no interest inreclaiming it.”
“Peaty watched and seized the opportunity,” I said. “Chong have anyimpressions of Peaty?”
“Never saw him. Who he does remember is Billy Dowd. He’d always wondered ifBilly had something to do with the theft.”
“Why?”
“Because Billy used to hang around aimlessly when Brad came by to collectrent. One time he drifted into Chong’s office and just stood there, like heowned the place. Chong asked him what he wanted, Billy got a spaced-out look inhis eyes and left without a word. Chong followed Billy out into the hall, sawhim walking up and down, like he was patrolling. A couple of women stepped outof an office and Billy checked them out. Pretty intensely, according to Chong.Then Brad showed up, ushered Billy away. But he kept bringing Billy along, soChong started locking his door. Interesting, huh?”
“Billy and Peaty?” I said.
“Weirdos finding common ground. It happens, right? Brad protects Billy buthe can’t be everywhere. And like you said, he overestimates his power. Maybe hetakes Billy along with him when he checks out the garage at the PlayHouse. Orthe PlayHouse itself. I don’t see Billy getting laid on his own.”
“Billy seemed gentle.”
“Maybe he is,” he said. “Except when he’s not. In any event, I just gotpermission from Vasquez’s D.P.D. to interview his client, on my way over to thejail. I’m betting on a quick plea, maybe involuntary manslaughter. Kinda niceto have one that closes easy.”
“You could name Peaty as the bad guy on Michaela and close that,” I said.
“Yet I wonder aloud about Billy,” he said. “Why? Because I’m aself-destructive fool, no sleep in two days, I’m vulnerable, amigo. Tell me toforget about Billy and I will.”
“Two bad guys could explain how the Gaidelases’ car ended up twenty-fivemiles from Kanan Dume. Billy doesn’t seem street-smart, but Peaty could’vehelped him there. Still, it’s hard to imagine him getting away for any lengthof time. He and Brad seem to be together most of the day and at night there’s aneighbor watching him.”
“The ‘nice lady.’ Wonder how hard she looks. I was supposed to check thatout but with all that’s happened…do you think it’s interesting that the badstuff we know about started after Billy got his own place?”
“If the bad stuff was the product of a sick relationship,” I said, “withPeaty gone, Billy might not act out again.”
“There’s comfort for you.”
“I can drop by and talk to the neighbor.”
“That would be great, I’m tied up with Vasquez all day.” He read off Billy’saddress on Reeves Drive.“Any more problems from that asshole Hauser?”
“Not a one.”
“Good.”
“I’m still wondering about something,” I said.
“Am I going to want to hear this?”
“Dylan Meserve picked Latigo for the hoax because he hiked up there. Whatled the Gaidelases to the same spot?”
“Aha,” he said. “Already been there and back. Maybe Peaty overheard Dylantalking about hiking up there. While the Gaidelases were waiting for theiraudition, they mentioned wanting to hike and Peaty overheard again and gavethem advice.”
“That’s a lot of overhearing.”
“He’s a watcher.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You’re not buying it.”
“What we know about Meserve suggests lack of conscience, or at the least aweak one. Michaela’s description of his behavior those nights bothers me. Mindgames, preoccupation with death, rough sex. I hate to add to your burden but—”
“It’s not my burden. The Gaidelases were never my case.”
A casual acquaintance might’ve bought that.
He said, “Peaty for the girls, Meserve for the Gaidelases? What, that damnedschool was a magnet for homicidal maniacs?”
“Something went on there.”
He laughed. Not a pleasant sound.