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Updated: June 12, 2025
Sommers's tidings Graydon saw that a shadow had fallen on Madge's face, and his manner at once became gravely and gently considerate. There were allusions to the dead girl in the service at the chapel, where she had been an attendant, and Graydon saw half-shed tears in Madge's eyes more than once. She drove out with him in the lovely summer afternoon to the gray old farmhouse.
Sommers had edged her into a protected corner formed by a large telephone post. The jostling people stared impudently at the prettily dressed young woman. To their eyes she betrayed herself at a glance as one of the privileged, who used the banned Pullman cars. "Whar's your kerridge?" a woman called out over Sommers's shoulder. A man pushed him rudely into his companion.
"Yes, back to my case." Mrs. Ducharme opened the door of the cottage in response to Sommers's knock. Attired in a black house dress, with her dark hair smoothly brushed back from round, fat features, she was a peaceful figure. Sommers thought there was some truth in her contention that "Ducharme ought to get a decent-looking woman, anyway." "How is Mr. Preston?" he asked. Mrs.
"Oh! sit down, man. I am complimenting you. Haven't you a place as office boy, compositor, or something for a needy friend?" "I don't see what you're so funny about, doctor," Miss M'Gann expostulated. "Spoiling the Philistines, you see," Dresser added, making an effort to chime in with Sommers's irony. They talked late.
Sommers dropped her arm and strode forward. "What did she know?" he asked harshly. "I don't see how she could know anything except suspicions. You know she was queer and a great talker." Sommers's face worked. He was about to speak when Alves went on. "I told Jane we had never been married; she asked me where we were married. I suppose I ought not to have told her. I didn't want to."
"Well, whatever he's a-goin' to do, I hope he'll look sharp about it, for poor Miss Sommers's fate and the lives o' my mates, to say nothin' of my own, is hangin' at this moment on a hair so to speak," returned the sailor, as he carefully scraped up and consumed the very last grain of the savoury mess, murmuring, as he did so, that it was out o' sight the wery best blow-out he'd had since he enjoyed his last Christmas dinner in old England.
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