It was two o'clock in the morning before Coast locked behind him the heavy door of the school and turned towards his own house. It was a moonless night, and he stumbled across the yard, scraping his shins for the hundredth time against the low parapet near the gate.
His neuralgia was worse than ever.
Mrs. Coast trotting timidly behind him sighed forlornly.
"Well, that's done! But what ever shall we do about those tables? And did you hear Miss Taylor say she hadn't prepared her lessons for to-morrow yet? But what a lovely supper—only poor Mrs. Robson doesn't look well, does she?"
"Oh, don't talk. Can't you see I have a headache? Where did you put the matches? Are there never any matches in this confounded house?"
"Aren't you coming upstairs, Ernie? You must be tired."
"Oh, for God's sake leave me alone! Go to bed. And how many thousand times have I told you not to call me 'Ernie'?"
"Oh, I'm sure I didn't mean anything. Only I'm sure you're tired. Would you like a cup of cocoa, Ern—Mr. Coast?"
"Cocoa! Cocoa!" His voice rose to a shrill scream. The headache was closing in upon him now in a swirling horror of nausea. "Get out. Get out for Heaven's sake!"
Mrs. Coast fled.