Місіс Деллоуей

           Holmeswouldsay“Inafunk,eh?”Holmeswouldgethim.Butno;notHolmes;notBradshaw.Gettingupratherunsteadily,hoppingindeedfromfoottofoot,heconsideredMrs.Filmer’snicecleanbreadknifewith“Bread”carvedonthehandle.Ah,butonemustn’tspoilthat.Thegasfire?Butitwastoolatenow.Holmeswascoming.Razorshemighthavegot,butRezia,whoalwaysdidthatsortofthing,hadpackedthem.Thereremainedonlythewindow,thelargeBloomsbury-lodginghousewindow,thetiresome,thetroublesome,andrathermelodramaticbusinessofopeningthewindowandthrowinghimselfout.Itwastheirideaoftragedy,nothisorRezia’s(forshewaswithhim).HolmesandBradshawlikethatsortofthing.(Hesatonthesill.)Buthewouldwaittilltheverylastmoment.Hedidnotwanttodie.Lifewasgood.Thesunhot.Onlyhumanbeings—whatdidTHEYwant?Comingdownthestaircaseoppositeanoldmanstoppedandstaredathim.Holmeswasatthedoor.“I’llgiveityou!”hecried,andflunghimselfvigorously,violentlydownontoMrs.Filmer’sarearailings.

           “Thecoward!”criedDr.Holmes,burstingthedooropen.Reziarantothewindow,shesaw;sheunderstood.Dr.HolmesandMrs.Filmercollidedwitheachother.Mrs.Filmerflappedherapronandmadeherhidehereyesinthebedroom.Therewasagreatdealofrunningupanddownstairs.Dr.Holmescamein—whiteasasheet,shakingallover,withaglassinhishand.