“Yes, Mary Anne?”
“Young Mr. Hexam, if you please, ma’am, coming to see Mr. Headstone.”
“Very good, Mary Anne.”
Again Mary Anne held up her arm.
“You may speak, Mary Anne?”
“ Mr. Headstone has beckoned young Mr. Hexam into his house, ma’am, and he has gone in himself without waiting for young Mr. Hexam to come up, and now he has gone in too, ma’am, and has shut the door.”
“With all my heart, Mary Anne.”
Again Mary Anne’s telegraphic arm worked.
“What more, Mary Anne?”
“They must find it rather dull and dark, Miss Peecher, for the parlour blind’s down, and neither of them pulls it up.”
“There is no accounting,” said good Miss Peecher with a little sad sigh which she repressed by laying her hand on her neat methodical boddice, “there is no accounting for tastes, Mary Anne.”
Charley, entering the dark room, stopped short when he saw his old friend in its yellow shade.
“Come in, Hexam, come in.”
Charley advanced to take the hand that was held out to him; but stopped again, short of it. The heavy, bloodshot eyes of the schoolmaster, rising to his face with an effort, met his look of scrutiny.