Wilkinson thrust his arms into an overcoat, jammed a cap down on his forehead, and strode into the weather. He strode into Mrs. Norman's drawing-room.
When Mrs. Norman saw that look on his face she knew that it was all right. Her youth rose in her again to meet it.
"Forgive me," said Wilkinson. "I had to come."
"Why not?" she said.
"It's so late."
"Not too late for me."
He sat down, still with his air of determination, in the chair she indicated. He waved away, with unconcealed impatience, the trivialities she used to soften the violence of his invasion.
"I've come," he said, "because I've had something on my mind. It strikes me that I've never really thanked you."
"Thanked me?"
"For your great kindness to my wife."