“Well, you frightened me like anything,” she said, petulantly. “What did you do? Did you shake me?”
“No, I didn’t—I kissed you.”
She got up without reply and went past him into the spare room.
Warrener said nothing until his preparations for the night were made, then calling out: “Aren’t you coming to bed, Gertrude?” he went to the spare-room door. It was locked.
Used to little petulant exhibitions of temper whose pricks he had felt with no serious wound, tired out and rendered indifferent by the unremitting brain and nerve tension of his life, Warrener yielded passively, and, going into the other room with a sigh of fatigue, sought his deserted bed.
TO BE CONTINUED.
OCTOBER
IN trails of fire across the land
October flings with lavish hand
The glowing bittersweet.