She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Sheila had dropped glaring hints that she knew, which Chuck tacitly acknowledged with a lowered gaze. The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of the wind. On the orders of Mr Jarvis, that were.
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