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Povey was certainly asleep, and his mouth was very wide open like a shop-door. The only question was whether his sleep was not an eternal sleep; the only question was whether he was not out of his pain for ever. Then he snored horribly; his snore seemed a portent of disaster. Sophia approached him as though he were a bomb, and stared, growing bolder, into his mouth.
Sciatica, at its most active, cannot be surpassed even by rheumatic fever. Constance had been in nearly continuous pain for years. Her friends, however sympathetic, could not appreciate the intensity of her torture. They were just as used to it as she was. "Mrs. Povey and her sciatica again! Poor thing, she really is a little tedious!"
And she had actually stood on the counter in front of the window in order to see down perpendicularly into the Square; by so doing she had had a glimpse of the top of his luggage on a barrow, and of the crown of his hat occasionally when he went outside to tempt Mr. Povey.
He blushed darkly; and the girls also blushed. "Oh, I beg pardon, I'm sure!" said this youngish man suddenly; and with a swift turn he disappeared whence he had come. He was Mr. Povey, a person universally esteemed, both within and without the shop, the surrogate of bedridden Mr. Baines, the unfailing comfort and stand-by of Mrs.
"We're going to have supper at my house. Mary will have some of the boys there." "I guess Emeline will have to wait till the next time," George said coldly. "She wouldn't get much pleasure out of it, leaving me here as sick as I am!" "Oh, I don't know!" Mrs. Povey half sang, half laughed.
"I wonder whatever in this world has brought him at last to that Mr. Boldero's in Deansgate?" she asked the walls. As they came into the parlour, a great motor-car drove up before the door, and when the pulsations of its engine had died away, Dick Povey hobbled from the driver's seat to the pavement. In an instant he was hammering at the door in his lively style. There was no avoiding him.
"I should like to have a word with you, if it's all the same to you, Mrs. Baines," said Mr. Povey suddenly, with obvious nervousness. And his tone struck a rude unexpected blow at Mrs. Baines's peace of mind. It was a portentous tone. "What about?" asked she, with an inflection subtly to remind Mr. Povey what day it was. "About Constance," said the astonishing man. "Constance!" exclaimed Mrs.
Constance could not. It did not even occur to Constance to order a cup of tea. Dick Povey kept his word. At a quarter-past five he drew up in front of No. 49, Deansgate, Manchester. "There you are!" he said, not without pride. "Now, we'll come back in about a couple of hours or so, just to take your orders, whatever they are."
She roved right round the house, and descended creepingly by the twisted house-stairs, and listened intently at the other door of the parlour. She now detected a faint regular snore. Mr. Povey, a prey to laudanum and mussels, was sleeping while Constance worked at her fire-screen! It was now in the highest degree odd, this seclusion of Mr.
She shook her head. "I don't think I shall go to-day. It's too cold. I don't think I shall venture out to-day." "You must be very fond of reading," said he. Then Mr. Povey appeared, rubbing his mittened hands. And Mrs. Chatterley went. "I'll run and fetch mother," said Constance. Mrs. Baines was very polite to the young man.
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