“Not to-night. Mother——”
“Yes; I expect she’s frightfully glad.”
“Oh! yes—yes! She—yes!”
“Well, good-night. And look here—you go back. I’ll tell Roddy. No! Don’t rumple me!”
Running back between small houses, the boy thought: ‘Good God! How queer! How upside-down! She—she——! It’s awfully modern!’
3 §
Late—299 sat in the firelight, a glass beside him, a cigarette between his smiling lips. The cinders clicked, a clock struck. Eleven! He pitched the stump of his cigarette into the ashes, stretched himself, and rose. He went upstairs and opened the first door. The room was dark. A faint voice said:
“Philip?”
“Yes.”
The light sprang out under his thumb. His wife was sitting up in bed, her face pale, her lips moving: