Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. I would have heard her. He was standing at the moment close to the hatch, with his ear at the keyhole, and received a severe blow in the face. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. She had tasted freedom now, and so far she had not felt the need of protection.
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