"It wasn't that one at all, miss," said the ostler,"I'd SWEAR"

"Well, that's Mr. Beaumont," said the barmaid, "--anyhow."

Their conversation hung comatose in the air, switched up by
Bechamel. They listened together. His feet stopped. Turned. Went
out of the diningroom. Down the passage to the bedroom. Stopped
again.

"Poor chap!" said the barmaid. "She's a wicked woman!"

"Sssh!" said Stephen.

After a pause Bechamel went back to the dining-room. They heard a
chair creak under him. Interlude of conversational eyebrows.

"I'm going up," said Stephen, "to break the melancholy news to
him."

Bechamel looked up from a week-old newspaper as, without
knocking, Stephen entered. Bechamel's face suggested a different
expectation. "Beg pardon, sir," said Stephen, with a diplomatic
cough.

"Well?" said Bechamel, wondering suddenly if Jessie had kept some
of her threats. If so, he was in for an explanation. But he had
it ready. She was a monomaniac. "Leave me alone with her," he
would say; "I know how to calm her."