"
"She's very strict about drink," said Mr. Burton, eyeing these
proceedings with some severity.
"Any--dibs?" inquired Mr. Stiles, slapping a pocket which failed to ring
in response.
"She's comfortable," replied the other, awkwardly. "Got a little
stationer's shop in the town; steady, old-fashioned business. She's
chapel, and very strict."
"Just what you want," remarked Mr. Stiles, placing his glass on the
table. "What d'ye say to a stroll?"
Mr. Burton assented, and, having replaced the black bottle in the
cupboard, led the way along the cliffs toward the town some half-mile
distant, Mr. Stiles beguiling the way by narrating his adventures since
they had last met. A certain swagger and richness of deportment were
explained by his statement that he had been on the stage.
"Only walking on," he said, with a shake of his head. "The only speaking
part I ever had was a cough. You ought to ha' heard that cough, George!"
Mr. Burton politely voiced his regrets and watched him anxiously. Mr.
Stiles, shaking his head over a somewhat unsuccessful career, was making
a bee-line for the Cock and Flowerpot.
"Just for a small soda," he explained, and, once inside, changed his mind
and had whisky instead.
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