My wife—killed me. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. No, I thank you. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. ’ ‘Oh, this is becoming nonsensical,’ exclaimed Lucilla. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet.
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