‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. 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. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she escaped him here. The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable. “Why?” He inquired. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly.
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