"Hello," said a mischievous voice, and he caught a gleam of bright eyes and a smiling face at the gaping crack. Hastily opening the doors, he passed through, and, firmly closing them behind him, stood over the beautiful but slightly unformed and undeveloped figure sitting on the sofa, that was drawn close up to the doors.
"Derrice," he said, reprovingly.
"What a trying time you are having with your mamma," she said, saucily. "I was just about to interrupt. I want to go to bed."
"Very well," he said, submissively, and, preceding her into the hall, he picked up a small leather bag.
Mrs. Prymmer, peering out of the front room, saw them go by,—her son with the girl's cloak thrown over his shoulder, his head inclined toward her, as he talked in a low voice.
"Bewitched!" she exclaimed, furiously, and, creeping to the door-sill, she listened to their further movements.
Ever since his childhood her son had occupied a large room at the back of the house overlooking the garden. Mrs. Prymmer heard him open the door of this room and ask his wife to stand still while he found a match. Then there was a silence, and she pictured the girl's critical glance running over the muffled furniture, the covered bed, and the drawn blinds.
Presently there was the sound of the strange voice in the hall, "I cannot sleep in that room. It is damp, and the sheets are clammy."
"But, Derrice," said her son's clear tones in remonstrance.
"I am not mistaken," repeated the girl, "where are your other sleeping-rooms?"