Kathleen rose and went to her room. Towards half-past nine, listening intently, he heard wheels that stopped a little way down the road. The cab!—he sat with fingers tightly gripping the chair. Heavy steps crunching to the front door. Kathleen, running softly downstairs to meet the cabman, shut, in passing, the dining-room door.
"Kathleen!"
She looked in. "Yes?"
"Why did you do that?" querulously.
"I don't want you to feel a draught."
"Who's there?"
She made vague response, "Man about the bathroom tap"; and closed the door again.
"Bathroom tap" ... Gareth laughed ironically. Then stopped laughing, confronted of a sudden by the utter ignominy of a man who sat and drowsed in a dressing-gown over the fire, while his mate was in the very act of leaving him. Straining forward in his chair, he heard the cabby lurch downstairs with the trunk on his shoulder. A pause. Then Kathleen again entered, in hat and coat.
"I'm going out, Gareth."
He did not turn. "At this time? Why?"