Nutty fetched the water. Life is like that. There is nothing
clean-cut about it, no sense of form. Instead of being permitted
to concentrate his attention on his tragedy Nutty had to trudge
three-quarters of a mile, conciliate a bull-terrier, and trudge
back again carrying a heavy pail. It was as if one of the heroes
of Greek drama, in the middle of his big scene, had been asked to
run round the corner to a provision store.
The exercise did not act as a restorative. The blow had been too
sudden, too overwhelming. Nutty's reason--such as it was--tottered
on its throne. Who was Lord Dawlish? What had he done to
ingratiate himself with Uncle Ira? By what insidious means, with
what devilish cunning, had he wormed his way into the old man's
favour? These were the questions that vexed Nutty's mind when he
was able to think at all coherently.
Back at the farm Elizabeth cooked breakfast and awaited her
brother's return with a sinking heart. She was a soft-hearted
girl, easily distressed by the sight of suffering; and she was
aware that Nutty was scarcely of the type that masks its woes
behind a brave and cheerful smile. Her heart bled for Nutty.
There was a weary step outside. Nutty entered, slopping water. One
glance at his face was enough to tell Elizabeth that she had
formed a too conservative estimate of his probable gloom.
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