He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. Surely he was imagining this picture. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. “That is very nice of you,” she said. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house. "Rowland," she rejoined, "you strive in vain to terrify me into compliance with your wishes. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved.
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