In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Anna was singing as she used to sing. There was more shouting. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. ‘To go to these Charvill, it was not in my plot. I am out of your life forever, never having been in it. All that is jolly and as it should be. I wondered what you could be doing and what might be happening to you. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket. A good deal of the food will be in tins. ” “Bring me a whisky and soda, and a box of cigarettes,” Ennison answered, “and then leave me alone, there’s a good fellow.
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