‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. “Hello, Vee!” he said. ‘You said—who?’ ‘Remenham. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. CHAPTER XXIII.
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