But the little clergyman made a sign with his hand, and advanced a step or two, intent with all his mind and soul on Roger Monk’s massive wrist and the bowl which he was poising.

Wolf had to content himself, therefore, with drawing back his father-in-law to a bench under the hedge, where the game could be watched and Mr. Torp’s lamentations listened to in comparative ease and comfort.

“What’s wrong with this Mr. Round?” He hadn’t intended to say anything like this when he searched about in his mind for a suitable topic; but the words rose to his lips as if from some inquisitive demon pricking up its ears in the pit of his stomach.