"Mary," in a penetrating whisper, "let me in, I've lost that confounded key."
In a moment Mary was over at the window, undid the catches, and Grantly scrambled through.
"Grantly!" Mary exclaimed. "What on earth is the matter? You look awful."
Grantly caught sight of himself in her long glass and agreed with her.
He was covered with mud from head to foot, his overcoat was torn, his white tie was gone, his beautiful smooth hair, with the neat ripple at the temples, stood on end in ragged locks; in fact he was as unlike the "Knut" of ordinary life as he could well be.
"Get into bed, Mary," he said, "you'll catch cold . . ."
Mary, looking very tall in her straight white nightgown, turned slowly and got into bed. "Now tell me," she said.
Grantly went and sat at the end of her bed and Parker joined him, cuddling up against him and trying to lick his face. It mattered nothing to Parker that he was ragged and dirty and disreputable; nothing that he might have committed any crime in the rogues' calendar. He was one of the family, he was home, he had evidently been in trouble, he needed comfort, therefore Parker made much of him. Grantly felt this and was vaguely cheered.
"Now," said Mary again, and switched off the light; "you can have the eiderdown if you're cold."
"Well, if you must know," said Grantly, "we went to the Radical meeting and got chucked out."