“I was obliged to refuse a man to-day—a man and a woman, quite young people, with three small children. He was ill and out of work; but on inquiry we found that they were not man and wife.”
There was a slight pause; the little man's eyes were fastened on his nails, and, with an appearance of enjoyment, he began to bite them. Shelton's face had grown a trifle red.
“And what becomes of the woman and the children in a case like that?” he said.
The little man's eyes began to smoulder.
“We make a point of not encouraging sin, of course. Excuse me a minute; I see they've finished bagatelle.”
He hurried off, and in a moment the clack of bagatelle began again. He himself was playing with a cold and spurious energy, running after the balls and exhorting the other players, upon whom a wooden acquiescence seemed to fall.
Shelton crossed the room, and went up to young Curly. He was sitting on a bench, smiling to himself his private smiles.
“Are you staying here much longer?” Shelton asked.
Young Curly rose with nervous haste.
“I 'm afraid,” he said, “there 's nobody very interesting here to-night.”