She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. "More than you'll pay for it, friend," snuffled the Jew. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. Ramage, regarding it and putting a well-booted foot up on the bottom rail. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence.
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