Part 24

On my return from the city I went into the dining-room and found the picture gone. Eliza was sitting there as calmly as if nothing had happened.

"Where is the 'Christian Martyr'?" I asked.

"On the sofa in the drawing-room. You said yourself that it was only in the way in here. I thought you might like to hang it there."

"I am not angry," I said, "but I am pained." Then I fetched the "Christian Martyr" and put it in its old place.

"You are a funny man," said Eliza; "I never know what you want."

* * * * *

As we were going up to bed that night we heard a loud bang in the dining-room. The "Christian Martyr" was lying on the floor with the glass broken. It had also smashed a Japanese teapot.

"I wish you'd never bought any 'Christian Martyr,'" said Eliza. "If we'd had a mad bull in the place it couldn't have been worse. I'm sure I'm not going to buy a new glass for it."

So next day I bought a new glass myself in the city, and brought it back with me. But apparently Eliza had changed her mind, for a new glass had already been fitted in, and it was hanging in the dining-room, just where it had been before.

As a reward to Eliza I took it down and put it up in the drawing-room. She smiled in a curious sort of way that I did not quite like. But I thought it best to say nothing more about it.

THE PAGRAMS

Properly speaking, we had quarrelled with the Pagrams.

We both lived in the same street, and Pagram is in the same office as myself. For some time we were on terms. Then one night they looked in to borrow--well, I forget now precisely what it was, but they looked in to borrow something. A month afterward, as they had not returned it, we sent round to ask. Mrs. Pagram replied that it had already been returned, and Pagram--this was the damning thing--told me at the office in so many words that they had never borrowed it. Now, I hate anything like deception. So does Eliza. For two years or more Eliza and Mrs. Pagram have met in the street without taking the least notice of each other. I speak to Pagram in the office--being, as you might say, more or less paid to speak to him. But outside we have nothing to do with each other.

* * * * *

It was on Wednesday morning, I think, at breakfast, that Eliza said:

"I've just heard from Jane, who had it from the milkman--Mrs. Pagram had a baby born last night."

"Well, that," I observed, "is of no earthly interest to us."

"Of course it isn't. I only just mentioned it."

"Is it a boy or girl?"

"A girl. I only hope she will bring it up to speak the truth."

I replied that she might hope what we did not expect. So far Eliza had taken just exactly the tone that I wanted. But as I watched her, I saw her expression change and her underlip pulled down on one side, as it were.

"Well," I said rather sharply, "what is it? These people are nothing to us."

"No. But--it reminded me--our little girl--my baby--that died. And I----"

Here she put down her knife and fork, got up, and walked to the window. There she stood, with her back to me.

I had a mind to speak to her about the foolishness of recalling what must be very upsetting to her. But I said nothing, and began to brush my silk hat briskly. It was about time that I was starting for the city.

I went out.

Then I came back, kissed Eliza, and went out again.

* * * * *