'Ave you 'eard about Mr. Bush, pore gentleman?"
Mrs. Stout was very English.
"Mr. Bush? No. What about him?" Hazel resented Mr. Bush, his name,
and his affairs being brought to her attention at every turn. She
desired nothing so much since that scene in the office as to ignore his
existence.
"'E was 'urt shockin' bad this awft'noon," Mrs. Stout related. "Out
'orseback ridin', and 'is 'orse ran away with 'im, and fell on 'im.
Fell all of a 'eap, they say. Terrible--terrible! The pore man isn't
expected to live. 'Is back's broke, they say. W'at a pity! Shockin'
accident, indeed."
Miss Weir voiced perfunctory sympathy, as was expected of her, seeing
that she was an employee of the firm--or had been lately. But close
upon that she escaped to her own room. She did not relish sitting
there discussing Mr. Andrew Bush. Hazel lacked nothing of womanly
sympathy, but he had forfeited that from her.
Nevertheless she kept thinking of him long after she went to bed. She
was not at all vindictive, and his misfortune, the fact--if the report
were true--that he was facing his end, stirred her pity. She could
guess that he would suffer more than some men; he would rebel bitterly
against anything savoring of extinction.
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