"You don't mind if I catch my death of cold; I've got to go on a
Christmas dance when I deposit you on your doorstep," grumbled Sidney.
"Catch! There, you duffer! It's gone into the mud. Sure you won't jump
in? Plenty of room. Addie can sit on my knee. Well, ta, ta! Merry
Christmas."
Raphael lit his pipe and strode off with long ungainly strides. It was a clear frosty night, and the moonlight glistened on the silent spaces of street and square.
"Go to bed, my dear," said Mrs. Goldsmith, returning to the lounge where
Esther still sat brooding. "You look quite worn out."
Left alone, Mrs. Goldsmith smiled pleasantly at Mr. Goldsmith, who, uncertain of how he had behaved himself, always waited anxiously for the verdict. He was pleased to find it was "not guilty" this time.
"I think that went off very well," she said. She was looking very lovely to-night, the low bodice emphasizing the voluptuous outlines of the bust.
"Splendidly," he returned. He stood with his coat-tails to the fire, his coarse-grained face beaming like an extra lamp. "The people and those croquettes were A1. The way Mary's picked up French cookery is wonderful."
"Yes, especially considering she denies herself butter. But I'm not
thinking of that nor of our guests." He looked at her wonderingly.
"Henry," she continued impressively, "how would you like to get into
Parliament?"
"Eh, Parliament? Me?" he stammered.
"Yes, why not? I've always had it in my eye."
His face grew gloomy. "It is not practicable," he said, shaking the head with the prominent teeth and ears.