" "As you please, Sir,—provided you don't let him off. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. I thought every one had heard about it. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. "They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. “Ye Gods!” she said at last. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. Then, when the tension was getting unendurable, and she was on the verge of speaking to some casual passer-by and demanding help, her follower vanished. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home.
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