But Mrs. Harrington looked
up, frowning slightly, and said: "Can't anything be done?" Harrington
shook his head. "It's hopeless." By this time I was convinced that it
must be some family skeleton that Harrington had rather oddly chosen to
bring out before a stranger; some scapegrace cousin, I suspected, who
probably got drunk and came to Harrington's office and demanded money. I
looked discreetly into my plate as Mrs. Harrington suggested: "You might
write to the superintendent." "We have," replied Harrington, "and he
threatened to take it off altogether. Not that it would mean any loss. I
can make just as good time now by the 8:35."
After luncheon we walked. I have never found the walking in the suburbs
very good. There is a regrettable lack of elbow-room. A short stroll
brings one either to a railway-siding, which is bad enough, or to a
promising growth of trees, which is worse. From the road these trees
look like the beginning of a primeval jungle sweeping on to far
horizons. Plunge into that timber growth and in five minutes you emerge
on a sewered road with concrete sidewalks and ornamental lamp posts and
a crew of Italian labourers drinking beer in the shadow of a
steam-roller.
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