It surprised him. He had always liked it, but it seemed that now
he was seeing it for the first time. It was cheap, that was what it was,
like everything else in this house. His mind went back to the house he
had just left, and he saw, first, the paintings, and next, Her, looking
at him with melting sweetness as she shook his hand at leaving. He
forgot where he was and Bernard Higginbotham's existence, till that
gentleman demanded:-

"Seen a ghost?"

Martin came back and looked at the beady eyes, sneering, truculent,
cowardly, and there leaped into his vision, as on a screen, the same eyes
when their owner was making a sale in the store below--subservient eyes,
smug, and oily, and flattering.

"Yes," Martin answered. "I seen a ghost. Good night. Good night,
Gertrude."

He started to leave the room, tripping over a loose seam in the
slatternly carpet.

"Don't bang the door," Mr. Higginbotham cautioned him.

He felt the blood crawl in his veins, but controlled himself and closed
the door softly behind him.

Mr. Higginbotham looked at his wife exultantly.

"He's ben drinkin'," he proclaimed in a hoarse whisper. "I told you he
would."

She nodded her head resignedly.

"His eyes was pretty shiny," she confessed; "and he didn't have no
collar, though he went away with one. But mebbe he didn't have more'n a
couple of glasses."

"He couldn't stand up straight," asserted her husband. "I watched him.
He couldn't walk across the floor without stumblin'. You heard 'm
yourself almost fall down in the hall."

"I think it was over Alice's cart," she said. "He couldn't see it in the
dark."

Mr. Higginbotham's voice and wrath began to rise. All day he effaced
himself in the store, reserving for the evening, with his family, the
privilege of being himself.

"I tell you that precious brother of yours was drunk."

His voice was cold, sharp, and final, his lips stamping the enunciation
of each word like the die of a machine. His wife sighed and remained
silent. She was a large, stout woman, always dressed slatternly and
always tired from the burdens of her flesh, her work, and her husband.

"He's got it in him, I tell you, from his father," Mr. Higginbotham went
on accusingly. "An' he'll croak in the gutter the same way. You know
that."

She nodded, sighed, and went on stitching. They were agreed that Martin
had come home drunk. They did not have it in their souls to know beauty,
or they would have