It was impossible even for the perspicacity of Joan Torp to put down this blustering friendliness to its true account⁠—to the pleasant glow, namely, diffused through Wolf’s veins by his rapid walk; and so, with a nearer approach to a benevolent grimace than he had ever seen on her grim features, she assured him with unhesitating emphasis that she would, “as sure as us be standing here, Mr. Solent,” drop in for tea that very afternoon at Preston Lane.

The appearance of the shopgirl with the stale loaf destined for the monument-maker’s table⁠— Mr. Torp abominated stale bread⁠—prevented the woman from detecting the cloud that descended on Wolf’s brow on receipt of this prompt acceptance of his hospitality. It was, indeed, only when he was hurrying out of the confectioner’s shop that he had the wit to turn round and fling back a suggestion that if Mrs. Torp went over there, now at once, her daughter would be very pleased to see her.