Nobody answered, and he took up his hat.
"Well, I'll be off." He said good-night and clattered away down the stairs.
"Young idiot!" Chris said, flinging himself into a chair. "Phew! It's warm, isn't it?"
"It's abnormal weather for September," Feathers agreed.
There was a little silence, then Feathers knocked the ashes from his pipe and stood up.
"Well, out with it! What's the matter?"
"What do you mean?"
"That I know you've come here with something on your mind. Get it off and you'll feel better."
He half-expected an outburst of rage from his friend, but none came, and there was a painful note in Chris' voice as he said:
"It's—my wife!"