"He's gone on the rocks (druggist Smith, or fish Smith?)"

"Druggist. Has Maurice been drinking?" She could not keep the anxiety
out of her voice.

"Drinking? He could be as drunk as a lord and I wouldn't--Whoa,
Lion!... Get me some shaving soap, Kit!" he called after her, as she
went into the shop.

When she came back with her packages and got into the buggy, she said,
quietly, "Tell me, Henry."

"He has simply done what I put him in the way of doing when I gave him a
letter of introduction to that Mrs. Newbolt, in Mercer."

"Newbolt? I don't remember--"

"Yes, you do. Pop eyes. Fat. Talked every minute, and everything she
said a _nonsequitur_. I used to wonder why her husband didn't choke her.
He was on our board. Died the year we came up here. Talked to death,
probably."

"Oh yes. I remember her. Well?"

"I thought she might make things pleasant for Maurice while he was
cramming. He doesn't know a soul in Mercer, and Bradley's game leg
wouldn't help out with sociability. So I gave him letters to two or
three people. Mrs. Newbolt was one of them. I hated her, because she
dropped her g's; but she had good food, and I thought she'd ask him
to dinner once in a while."