"To-morrow night."
"There won't be any to-morrow night—if you're going up to town."
"Well, then, perhaps if Mr. Lucy will excuse us, you will give me a moment now. It seems a pity not to put things straight while you're about it."
"You can't put things straight at eleven o'clock at night. My poor head's all muddled and aching abominably."
"To-morrow morning, then."
"There will be no time to-morrow morning. Robert, has Jane gone to bed?"
"No, she's sitting up. She wants to speak to you."
"Will you bring her to me, please?"
He rose. When he had left the room she turned on Marston in a fury.
"Wilfrid, you're a beast, a perfect beast."