Twite's brain didn't work very fast owing to the way it spent most of its time dormant in a basement, and for a moment he thought--it startled him that his master had forgotten the lady was dead. Ought he to remind him? What a painful dilemma.... However, he remembered the new Mrs. Wemyss just in time not to remind him, and to say 'Yes sir,' without too perceptible a pause. His mind hadn't room in it to contain much, and it assimilated slowly that which it contained. He had only been in Wemyss's service three months before the Mrs. Wemyss he found there died. He was just beginning to assimilate her when she ceased to be assimilatable, and to him and his wife in their quiet subterraneous existence it had seemed as if not more than a week had passed before there was another Mrs. Wemyss. Far was it from him to pass opinions on the rapid marriages of gentlemen, but he couldn't keep up with these Mrs. Wemysses. His mind, he found, hadn't yet really realised the new one. He knew she was there somewhere, for he had seen her briefly on the Saturday morning, and he knew she would presently begin to disturb him by needing meals, but he easily forgot her. He forgot her now, and consequently for a moment had the dreadful thought described above. 'I shall be in to dinner,' said Wemyss. 'Yes sir,' said Twite. Dinner. There usedn't to be dinner. His master hadn't been in once to dinner since Twite knew him. A tray for the lady, while there was a lady; that was all. Mrs. Twite could just manage a tray. Since the lady had left off coming up to town owing to her accident, there hadn't been anything. Only quiet. He stood waiting, not having been waved out of the room, and anxiously watching Wemyss's face, for he was a nervous man. Then the telephone bell rang. Wemyss, without looking up, waved him out to it and went on with his breakfast; and after a minute, noticing that he neither came back nor could be heard saying anything beyond a faint, propitiatory ''Ullo,' called out to him. 'What is it?' Wemyss called out. 'I can't hear, sir,' Twite's distressed voice answered from the hall. 'Fool,' said Wemyss, appearing, table-napkin in hand. 'Yes sir,' said Twite. He took the receiver from him, and then the Twites--Mrs. Twite from the foot of the kitchen stairs and Twite lingering in the background because he hadn't yet been waved away--heard the following: 'Yes yes. Yes, speaking. Hullo. Who is it?' 'What? I can't hear. What?' 'Miss who? En--oh, good-morning, How distant your voice sounds.' 'What? Where? _Where_?' 'Oh really.' Here the person at the other end talked a great deal. 'Yes. Quite. But then you see she wasn't.' More prolonged talk from the other end. 'What? She isn't coming up? Indeed she is. She's expected. I've ordered----' 'What? I can't hear. The doctor? You're sending for the doctor?' 'I daresay. But then you see I consider it isn't.' 'I daresay, I daresay. No, of course I can't. How can I leave my work----'