ake a mistake."

He saw them into the motor, Edith in a cloak of lace which made her seem
like some dainty, fairylike creature as she stepped from the pavement
into a corner of the landaulette. Afterwards, he walked with uplifted
heart through the streets and back to his rooms. He let himself in with
a mechanical turn of the key. On the threshold he stood still in sudden
amazement. The lights were all turned on, the room was in rank
disorder. Simmering upon the hearth were the remains of his novel;
upset upon the table several pots of paint. Three chairs were lashed
together with a piece of rope. On a fourth sat Alfred, cracking a
home-made whip. His hands were covered with coal-dust, traces of which
were smeared upon his cheeks. There were spots of ink all down his
clothes, his eyes seemed somehow to have crept closer together. There
were distinct signs of a tendency on the part of his hair to curl over a
certain spot on his forehead. He looked at his father like a whipped
hound but he said never a word.

"What on earth have you been doing, Alfred?" Burton faltered.

The boy dropped his whip and put his finger in his mouth. He was
obviously on the point of howling.

"You left me here all alone," he said, in an aggrieved tone. "There was
no one to play with, nothing to do. I want to go back to mother; I want
Ned and Dick to play with. Don't want to stop here any longer."

He began to howl. Burton looked around once more at the scene of his
desolation. He moved to the fireplace and gazed down at the charred
remnants of his novel. The boy continued to howl.

CHAPTER XXIV

MENATOGEN, THE MIND FOOD

It had been a dinner of celebration. The professor had ransacked his
cellar and produced his best wine. He had drunk a good deal of it
himself--so had Mr. Bomford. A third visitor, Mr. Horace Bunsome, a
company promoter from the city, had been even more assiduous in his
attentions to a particular brand of champagne.

Burton had been conscious of a sense of drifting. The more human side
of him was paramount. The dinner was perfect; the long, low
dining-room, with its bowls of flowers and quaint decorations,
delightful; the wine and food the best of their sort. Edith, looking
like an exquisite picture, was sitting by his side. After all, if the
end of things were to come this way, what did it matter? She had no
eyes for any one else, her fingers had touched his more than once. The
complete joy of living was in his p