'And waiting for you,' added Mr. Wogan grimly.
'And waiting for me,' repeated the Parson with a shiver.
They both stared for a little at the ceiling and the shadow of the lamp.
'Now, if the ceiling would only tell us something of her face,' said Kelly.
'It would be as well to have a look at her,' said Wogan. The street was quite deserted. 'Will you give me a back'?
The house was separated from the path by an iron railing a couple of feet from the wall. The Parson set his legs apart and steadied himself by the railing, while Wogan climbed up and knelt on to his shoulders. In that position he was able to lean forward and catch hold of the sill. His forehead was on a level with the sill. By craning his neck he could just look into the room.
'Is she there?' asked the Parson.
'Yes, and alone.'
'How does she look? Not in tears? Nick, don't tell me she's in tears.' The Parson's legs became unsteady at the mere supposition of such a calamity.
'Make yourself easy upon that point,' said Wogan, clinging for dear life to the sill, 'there's never a trace of a tear about her at all. For your sake, George, I could wish that there was. Her eyes are as dry as a campaigner's biscuits. Oh, George, I am in despair for you.'