Her dress was simpler than the other's. The face beneath
the picture-hat was small and well-shaped, the nose delicately
tip-tilted, the chin determined, the mouth a little wide and suggesting
good-humour. A pair of grey eyes looked steadily into his before
transferring themselves to the statuesque being at the table.
'Don't monkey with the man's inkwell, Gladys. Come along up to bed.'
'What? Say, got a cigarette?'
'There's plenty upstairs. Come along.'
The other went with perfect docility. At the door she paused, and
inspected Rutherford with a grave stare.
'Good night, boy!' she said, with haughty condescension.
'Good night!' said Rutherford.
'Pleased to have met you. Good night.'
'Good night!' said Rutherford.
'Good night!'
'Come along, Gladys,' said Peggy, firmly.
Gladys went.
Rutherford sat down and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief,
feeling a little weak. He was not used to visitors.
2
He had lit his pipe, and was re-reading his night's work preparatory to
turning in, when there was another knock at the door. This time there
was no waiting. He was in the state of mind when one hears the smallest
noise.
'Come in!' he cried.
It was Peggy.
Rutherford jumped to his feet.
'Won't you--' he began, pushing the chair forward.
She seated herself with composure on the table.
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