Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. “Thank you—and good-bye. She has already forgotten it. I am yours for the making over. Warren’s Profession furtively with Hetty Widgett from the gallery of a Stage Society performance one Monday afternoon. “Still, of course, it is possible. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved.
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