That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. He was a stranger. No great lover of state or state costume at any time, he was generally, towards the close of an evening, completely in dishabille, and in this condition he now presented himself to his subjects. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. I have been sitting with him ever since. .
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