CHAPTER II
A fine-framed dark-mustachioed gentleman, in dressing-gown and
slippers, was sitting there in the damp without a hat on. With one
hand he was tightly grasping his forehead, the other hung over his
knee. The attitude bespoke with sufficient clearness a mental
condition of anguish. He was quite a different being from any of the
men to whom her eyes were accustomed. She had never seen mustachios
before, for they were not worn by civilians in Lower Wessex at this
date. His hands and his face were white--to her view deadly white--
and he heeded nothing outside his own existence. There he remained
as motionless as the bushes around him; indeed, he scarcely seemed to
breathe.
Having imprudently advanced thus far, Margery's wish was to get back
again in the same unseen manner; but in moving her foot for the
purpose it grated on the gravel. He started up with an air of
bewilderment, and slipped something into the pocket of his dressing-
gown. She was almost certain that it was a pistol. The pair stood
looking blankly at each other.
'My Gott, who are you?' he asked sternly, and with not altogether an
English articulation. 'What do you do here?'
Margery had already begun to be frightened at her boldness in
invading the lawn and pleasure-seat. The house had a master, and she
had not known of it.
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