Burke shrugged his shoulders.
"Ask me something easy. I don't know, I'm sure. I cleared out."
"Without—your dinner?" John Denby asked the question after a very brief, but very tense, silence.
"My dinner—I got in the square."
Burke's lips snapped together again tight shut. John Denby said nothing. His eyes were gravely fixed on the glowing tip of the cigar in his hand.
Burke cleared his throat and hesitated. He had not intended to ask his question quite so soon; but suddenly he was consumed with an overwhelming desire to speak out and get it over. He cleared his throat again.
"Dad—would you mind—my sleeping here to-night? It's just that I—I want a good night's sleep, for once," he plunged on hurriedly, in answer to a swift something that he saw leap to his father's eyes. "And I can't get it there—with the baby and all."
There was a perceptible pause. Then, steadily, and with easy cordiality, came John Denby's reply.
"Why, certainly, my boy. I'm glad to have you. I'll ring at once for Benton to see that—that your old room is made ready for you," he added, touching a push-button near his chair.
Later, when Benton had come and gone, with his kindly old face alight and eager, Burke braced himself for what he thought was inevitable. Something would come, of course. The only question was, what would it be?