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"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."
"Mrs. Beaumont," said Stephen.
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