Didcott did not meet his eye. He puffed out a volume of smoke as if he would have hidden himself in its cloud.
The old man sighed.
"You did it out of kindness, Didcott, my boy. It was good of you."
The young man felt his conscience prick him. He had not acted from kindness, but from weakness. The sad look on the father's face touched him.
"Mr. Winder," he said, acting on a sudden impulse, "the book is excellent."
Very soon they joined Miss Winder. The rest of the evening was spent by the authoress in reading aloud extracts from her immortal work. But Didcott did not listen; he found sufficient occupation in watching the varying expressions on the girl's face.
"HE SPRANG ON THE STEP AND
DRAGGED FORTH THE PACKAGE."
