Mr. Darling reflected, and decided that too was unworkable. “’Ow’d _you_?” he asked with an air of desperation of the red-haired youth. The red-haired youth remained for a moment with his tongue extended, licking the gum of a cigarette paper, and his eyes on Mr. Darling. Then he finished the cigarette slowly, giving his mind very carefully to the question he had been honoured with. “I think,” he said, in a low serious voice, “I should say, just simply, Mary—or Susan—or whatever her name is.” “Tilda,” supplied Mr. Darling. “‘Tilda,’ I should say. ‘The Lord gave and the Lord ’ath taken away. Tilda!—’e’s gone.’ Somethin’ like that.” The red-haired boy cleared his throat. He was rather touched by his own simple eloquence. Mr. Darling reflected on this with profound satisfaction for some moments. Then he broke out almost querulously, “Yes, but brast him!—_where’s_ ’e gone?” “Anyhow,” said Mr. Darling, “I ain’t going to tell ’er, not till the morning. I ain’t going to lose my night’s rest if I _have_ lost my stepson. Nohow. Mr. Mergleson, I _must_ say, I don’t think I ever _’ave_ tasted better beer. Never. It’s—it’s famous beer.” He had some more.... On his way back through the moonlight to the gardens Mr. Darling was still unsettled as to the exact way of breaking things to his wife. He had come out from the house a little ruffled because of Mr. Mergleson’s opposition to a rather good idea of his that he should go about the house and “holler for ’im a bit. He’d know my voice, you see. Ladyship wouldn’t mind. Very likely ’sleep by now.” But the moonlight dispelled his irritation. How was he to tell his wife? He tried various methods to the listening moon. There was for example the off-hand newsy way. “You know tha’ boy yours?” Then a pause for the reply. Then, “’E’s toley dis’peared.” Only there are difficulties about the word totally. Or the distressed impersonal manner. “Dre’fle thing happen’d. Dre’fle thing. Tha’ poo’ lill’ chap, Artie—toley dis’peared.” Totally again. Or the personal intimate note. “Dunno wha’ you’ll say t’me, Tilda, when you hear what-togottasay. Thur’ly bad news. Seems they los’ our Artie up there—clean los’ ’im. Can’t fine ’im nowhere tall.” Or the authoritative kindly. “Tilda—you go’ control yourself. Go’ show whad you made of. Our boy—’e’s—hic—_los’_.” Then he addressed the park at large with a sudden despair. “Don’ care wha’ I say, she’ll blame it on to me. I _know_ ’er!” After that the enormous pathos of the situation got hold of him. “Poor lill’ chap,” he said. “Poor lill’ fell’,” and shed a few natural tears. “Loved ’im jessis mione son.” As the circumambient night made no reply he repeated the remark in a louder, almost domineering tone....