He opened the door a few inches, wound himself in, and shut it in Rupert's face. He made a great noise in putting up the bar, which was not in the least necessary. Rupert had given him his true appellation—that of sneak. He was one: a false-hearted, plausible, cowardly sneak. As he stood at a table in the hall, and struck a match to light his candle, his puny face and dull light eyes betrayed the most complaisant enjoyment.
He went upstairs smiling. He had to pass the angle of the corridor where his mother's rooms were situated. She glided silently out as he was going by. Her dress was off, and she had apparently thrown a shawl over her shoulders to come out to Cris: an old-fashioned spun-silk shawl, with a grey border and white centre: not so white, however, as the face of Mrs. Chattaway.
"Cris!" she said, laying her hand upon his arm, and speaking in the most timid whisper, "why did you not let him in?"
"I thought we had been ordered not to let him in," returned he of the deceitful nature. "I have been ordered, I know that."
"You might have done it just for once, Cris," his mother answered. "I know not what will become of him, out of doors this sharp night."
Cris disengaged his arm, and continued his way up to his room. He slept on the upper floor. Maude was standing at the door of her chamber when he passed—as Mrs. Chattaway had been.
"Cris—wait a minute," she said, for he was hastening by. "I want to speak a word to you. Have you seen Rupert?"
"Seen him and heard him too," boldly avowed Cris. "He wanted me to let him in."
"Which, of course, you would not do?" answered Maude, bitterly. "I wonder if you ever performed a good-natured action in your life?"
"Can't remember," mockingly retorted Cris.