The Indian Bangle. Fergus Hume
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the door.
"As untidy as ever, I see," remarked Laurence, as they walked up an overgrown brick path, through a wilderness of neglected flower-shrubs.
Aldean shrugged his shoulders. "What can you expect?" he said. "The doctor is one of your world-reformers, who sweeps every doorstep but his own. Reformation never begins at home with these fanatics--more's the pity."
Had Mrs. Drabble heard this last statement she would probably have endorsed it. She was a weary-looking, white-faced woman, worn out with family cares and domestic worries. Seven children, one servant, and a neglectful and exacting husband, were enough to account for her aspect. The room into which the visitors were shown was as untidy as the garden, and Mrs. Drabble was as untidy as the room. She gave her hand to Lord Aldean with a wan smile, and greeted Mallow with an apologetic air.
"For, indeed, I am quite ashamed that you should find us in such a state," she complained languidly; "but I have so much to do that I can do nothing."
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