Rawlings of his love-madness by every means in my power.
CHAPTER X
The study door burst open and one end of Elizabeth--the articulate
end--was jerked into view.
'Wot will you 'ave for lunch, 'm?' she demanded breathlessly. 'Lamb or
'am?'
Abruptly recalled from the realms of fiction writing I looked up a
little dazed. 'Lamb or 'am,' I repeated dully, 'lamorram? Er--ram, I
think, please, Elizabeth.'
Having thus disposed of my domestic obligations for the day, I returned
to my writing. I was annoyed therefore to see the other end of
Elizabeth travel round the doorway and sidle into the room. Her
pretext for entering--that of dusting the roll-top desk with her
apron--was a little thin, for she has not the slightest objection to
dust. I rather think it cheers her up to see it about the place.
Obviously she had come in to make conversation. I laid down my pen
with a sigh.
'I yeerd from my young man this morning,' she began. A chill
foreboding swept over me. (I will explain why in a minute.)
'Do you mean the boiler one?' I asked.
[Illustration: 'Do you mean the boiler one?' I asked.]
''Im wot belongs to the Amalgamated Serciety of Boilermakers,' she
corrected with dignity. 'Well, they've moved 'is 'eadquarters from
London to Manchester.'
There was a tense silence, broken only by Elizabeth's hard breathing on
a brass paper-weight ere she polished it with her sleeve.
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