new his own colliers
fairly well.

'Somerset Drive, for certain!' said the collier, swinging his arm as if
catching something up. 'Somerset Drive--yi! I couldn't for my life lay
hold o' the lercality o' the place. Yis, I know the place, to be sure I
do--'

He turned unsteadily on his feet, and pointed up the dark, nighdeserted
road.

'You go up theer--an' you ta'e th' first--yi, th' first turnin' on your
left--o' that side--past Withamses tuffy shop--'

'I know,' said Gerald.

'Ay! You go down a bit, past wheer th' water-man lives--and then
Somerset Drive, as they ca' it, branches off on 't right hand side--an'
there's nowt but three houses in it, no more than three, I
believe,--an' I'm a'most certain as theirs is th' last--th' last o' th'
three--you see--'

'Thank you very much,' said Gerald. 'Good-night.'

And he started off, leaving the tipsy man there standing rooted.

Gerald went past the dark shops and houses, most of them sleeping now,
and twisted round to the little blind road that ended on a field of
darkness. He slowed down, as he neared his goal, not knowing how he
should proceed. What if the house were closed in darkness?

But it was not. He saw a big lighted window, and heard voices, then a
gate banged. His quick ears caught the sound of Birkin's voice, his
keen eyes made out Birkin, with Ursula standing in a pale dress on the
step of the garden path. Then Ursula stepped down, and came along the
road, holding Birkin's arm.

Gerald went across into the darkness and they dawdled past him, talking
happily, Birkin's voice low, Ursula's high and distinct. Gerald went
quickly to the house.

The blinds were drawn before the big, lighted window of the diningroom.
Looking up the path at the side he could see the door left open,
shedding a soft, coloured light from the hall lamp. He went quickly and
silently up the path, and looked up into the hall. There were pictures
on the walls, and the antlers of a stag--and the stairs going up on one
side--and just near the foot of the stairs the half opened door of the
dining-room.

With heart drawn fine, Gerald stepped into the hall, whose floor was of
coloured tiles, went quickly and looked into the large, pleasant room.
In a chair by the fire, the father sat asleep, his head tilted back
against the side of the big oak chimney piece, his ruddy face seen
foreshortened, the nostrils open, the mouth fallen a little. It would
take the merest sound to wake him.