After a moment his pretty mother moved toward the dressing-room: "If you will find a chair and light a cigarette, Clive, we can continue talking."
His absent eyes reverted to her: "I think I'll go, mother. Good night."
"Good night, dear."
He went to his own room. From the room adjoining came his father's heavy breathing where he lay asleep.
The young fellow listened for a moment, then walked into the library where only a dim night-light was burning. He still wore his overcoat over his evening clothes, and carried his hat and stick.
For a while he stood in the dim library, head bent, staring at the rug under foot.
Then he turned, went out and down the stairs, and opened the door of the butler's pantry. The service telephone was there. He unhooked the receiver and called. Almost immediately he got his "party."
"Yes?" came the distant voice distinctly.
"Is it you, Athalie?"