"Where'll I go, Mr. Neale?"
"I don't care, Kate. Go any place you like. It isn't eleven o'clock yet. Where do you usually go?"
"To my sister's in Jamaica, but it's no time to be routing them out at this hour."
"Well, let me see. I tell you, Kate, there's a moving picture theatre down there at Fifty-ninth Street that keeps going till after one. Here's some money. You go there and see the picture and I'll stay and show this young man he can't get everything he cries for."
"I want to see the picture," said Pat, sitting up in bed.
"Now don't be silly. You get back there on your pillow," said Peter, "or I'll just knock you down."
Kate rummaged around for her bonnet and finally went out. During all this time Pat kept up a suppressed sobbing. As soon as the door slammed behind Kate he was sufficiently rested again to begin crying full force.
"Well, what is it now?" said Peter as fiercely as he could.
Pat's utterance was muffled with tears. "I want a story."
"You heard Kate go out. If you've got any sense you know she can't tell you a story."