k rear room of the office. George felt that this
would be infinitely more tolerable; and he could eat at restaurants,
especially as about all he ever wanted nowadays was coffee.

But at "dinner" he decided to put off telling Fanny of his plan until
later: she was so nervous, and so distressed about the failure of her
efforts with sweetbreads and macaroni; and she was so eager in her talk
of how comfortable they would be "by this time to-morrow night." She
fluttered on, her nervousness increasing, saying how "nice" it would
be for him, when he came from work in the evenings, to be among "nice
people--people who know who we are," and to have a pleasant game of
bridge with "people who are really old friends of the family?"

When they stopped probing among the scorched fragments she had set
forth, George lingered downstairs, waiting for a better opportunity to
introduce his own subject, but when he heard dismaying sounds from the
kitchen he gave up. There was a crash, then a shower of crashes; falling
tin clamoured to be heard above the shattering of porcelain; and over
all rose Fanny's wail of lamentation for the treasures saved from the
sale, but now lost forever to the "kitchenette." Fanny was nervous
indeed; so nervous that she could not trust her hands.

For a moment George thought she might have been injured, but, before he
reached the kitchen, he heard her sweeping at the fragments, and turned
back. He put off speaking to Fanny until morning.

Things more insistent than his vague plans for a sofa-bed in Bronson's
office had possession of his mind as he went upstairs, moving his hand
slowly along the smooth walnut railing of the balustrade. Half way to
the landing he stopped, turned, and stood looking down at the heavy
doors masking the black emptiness that had been the library. Here he
had stood on what he now knew was the worst day of his life; here he had
stood when his mother passed through that doorway, hand-in-hand with her
brother, to learn what her son had done.

He went on more heavily, more slowly; and, more heavily and slowly
still, entered Isabel's room and shut the door. He did not come forth
again, and bade Fanny good-night through the closed door when she
stopped outside it later.

"I've put all the lights out, George," she said. "Everything's all
right."

"Very well," he called. "Good-night."

She did not go. "I'm sure we're going to enjoy the new little home,
George," she said timidly. "I'll