Chalk's face flamed. "What sort of bird?" she demanded.
"Singin' bird," replied her husband, with nervous glibness.
Mrs. Chalk left the room.
Mr. Chalk finished his breakfast with an effort, and then, moving to the
window, lit his pipe and sat for some time in moody thought. A little
natural curiosity as to the identity of the fair whistler would, however,
not be denied, and the names of Binchester's fairest daughters passed in
review before him. Almost unconsciously he got up and surveyed himself
in the glass.
"There's no accounting for tastes," he said to himself, in modest
explanation.
His mind still dwelt on the subject as he stood in the hall later on in
the morning, brushing his hat, preparatory to taking his usual walk.
Mrs. Chalk, upstairs listening, thought that he would never have
finished, and drew her own conclusions.
With the air of a man whose time hangs upon his hands Mr. Chalk sauntered
slowly through the narrow by-ways of Binchester. He read all the notices
pasted on the door of the Town Hall and bought some stamps at the
post-office, but the morning dragged slowly, and he bent his steps at
last in the direction of Tredgold's office, in the faint hope of a little
conversation.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98