“Um! I guess that’ll take the foolishness out of you. Now clear out o’ here! Can’t you see I got to sign this mail? And don’t you come back any more till you’re ready to go to work!”
He rolled his chair in to his desk with much puffing and hid himself in a great cloud of smoke as he grabbed his pen.
CHAPTER XXXVII
WAYNE VISITS HIS FATHER’S HOUSE
MOST of the houses in the neighbourhood were deserted, but lights shone from the Craighill library as Wayne entered the grounds. He had his latch-key, but he was not sure that he had still the right to use it. He had come reluctantly, and the sight of the house did not intensify his zeal for an interview with his father. Near the hedge that marked one of the Craighill boundaries stood a rustic summer house. It had been a favourite retreat of Wayne’s mother, and as he debated afresh whether he should see his father he left the path and walked toward it. His step on the grass was noiseless. As he stood in the low doorway of the little house Mrs. Craighill sprang up from the corner where she had been idling.
“Oh, Wayne, have you come back?”
“I’m back unexpectedly, and only for the night. How are you—how’s father?”
He groped for chairs in the dark.
“Your father’s not himself at all. How could he ever be after that?”
“Let us not talk of it. I didn’t come for that.”
“But—you know what happened?” Her voice fell to a whisper. “He let the doctors pass on the old man’s death—and said nothing. They took his word for it. And of course what you offered to do—he didn’t take advantage of that.”