Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Coming from the gloom of the passage, even the corridors seemed sufficiently illuminated for them to see their way. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. The image did not move. Descending the hollow, or rather excavation,—for it was an old disused clay-pit, at the bottom of which the cottage was situated,—he speedily succeeded in arousing the ancient sibyl, and having committed Edgeworth Bess to her care, with a promise of an abundant reward in case she watched diligently over her safety, and attended to her comforts till his return,—to all which Black Mary readily agreed,—he departed with a heart lightened of half its load. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. And immeasurable was the calm evolved from this knowledge. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. "Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest.
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