And a few mornings later the same someone, whose curiosity had
been excited, veritably saw Mrs Ebag in the organ-loft with Carl Ullman,
but no sign of Miss Ebag. It was at this juncture that words began to be
said.
Words! Not complete sentences! The sentences were never finished. "Of
course, it's no affair of mine, but--" "I wonder that people like the
Ebags should--" "Not that I should ever dream of hinting that--" "First
one and then the other--well!" "I'm sure that if either Mrs or Miss
Ebag had the slightest idea they'd at once--" And so on. Intangible
gossamer criticism, floating in the air!
IV
One evening--it was precisely the first of June--when a thunderstorm was
blowing up from the south-west, and scattering the smoke of the Five
Towns to the four corners of the world, and making the weathercock of
the house of the Ebags creak, the ladies Ebag and Carl Ullman sat
together as usual in the drawing-room. The French window was open, but
banged to at intervals. Carl Ullman had played the piano and the ladies
Ebag--Mrs Ebag, somewhat comfortably stout and Miss Ebag spare--were
talking very well and sensibly about the influence of music on
character.
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