He went through the letters and read out the names on them.
“Mrs. Herbert Heywood, Mrs. Herbert Heywood, Mrs. Herbert Heywood, Mrs. Herbert—Why, every jack one is for Mrs. Herbert Heywood! Nobody writes to me, of course. No one cares a damn about me.”
“Your mother cares, Herbert,” said the old lady.
“I shall take to drink—or the devil,” said Herbert, and he added thoughtfully, “I wonder which is the most fun?”
“Herbert, dear!” cried his mother, “don’t say such awful things.”
“The worst of it is,” said Herbert bitterly, “they’re both so beastly expensive.”
There was the noise of a latchkey in the hall, and Mrs. Heywood gave a little cry.
“There’s Clare!”
“Think so?” said Herbert, listening.
From the hall came the sound of Clare’s voice singing a merry tune.