'Look here, Pow,' said Robert, whose condition was deplorable, 'I
want to sleep here tonight. Do you mind? Fact is, I've had a devil
of a shindy with Jack, and Maggie's run off, and, anyhow, I
couldn't possibly stop in the same house with Jack tonight.'
'But what--?'
'See here,' said Robert. 'I can't talk. Just let me have a bed in
your spare room. I'm sure you mother won't mind.'
'Why, certainly,' said Liversage.
He lit a candle, escorted Robert upstairs, opened the door of the
spare room, gave the candle to Robert, pushed him in, said 'Good
night,' and shut the door.
What a night!
THE NINETEENTH HAT
A dramatic moment was about to arrive in the joint career of
Stephen Cheswardine and Vera his wife. The motor-car stood by the
side of the pavement of the Strand, Torquay, that resort of
southern wealth and fashion. The chauffeur, Felix, had gone into
the automobile shop to procure petrol. Mr Cheswardine looking
longer than ever in his long coat, was pacing the busy footpath.
Mrs Cheswardine, her beauty obscured behind a flowing brown veil,
was lolling in the tonneau, very pleased to be in the tonneau,
very pleased to be observed by all Torquay in the tonneau, very
satisfied with her husband, and with the Napier car, and
especially with Felix, now buying petrol.
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