And you're not going to," said Charles-Norton, finishing his statement
with complete disregard of hers.

Dolly stood there a moment, looking at him with head slightly cocked to
one side. "All right, Goosie," she said cheerily. "Only, don't get mad at
poor little me. Come on to breakfast, you big, shaggy bear, you!"

"I don't _want_ any breakfast," growled Charles-Norton between closed
teeth (as a matter of fact, he did, and a fragrance of waffles from the
kitchen was at the moment profoundly agitating the pit of his being). "I
don't _want_ any breakfast--where's my hat--quick, I'm in a
hurry--good-by."

And tossing the hat bellicosely upon his head, he pulled to himself the
hall door, swaggered through, and let it slam back on his departing
heels, right before the astonished nose of his little wife.

She remained there before this rude door, examining its blank surface
with a sort of objective curiosity. At the same time she was listening to
the sound of steps gradually diminishing down the five flights. She shook
her head; "the bad, bad boy!" she said.

She pivoted with a shrug of the shoulders and went back to the kitchen
and sat down at the table, all set for breakfast. She took up her fork
and cut off a bit of waffle. She placed it in her mouth. Her eyes went
off far away.

It took it a long time, this little piece of waffle, to go down. Lordie,
what a tough, resilient, flannelly, bit of waffle this was! Suddenly her
head went forward. It lit upon the table, in her hands. A cup of the
precious blue ware, dislodged, balanced itself a moment on the edge of
the table, then, as if giving up hope, let go and crashed to the floor
at her feet in many pieces. She gave it no heed. Her head was in her
hands, her hands were on the table, her hair lay like a golden delta
among plates and saucers; and the table trembled.

CHAPTER V

Meanwhile Charles-Norton was not having such a good time either. Starting
off swaggeringly, he had halted three times on his way to the station,
and three times had taken at least two steps back toward the flat which
he felt desolate behind him. And now in his glass cage, a weight was at
his stomach, a constant weight like an indigestible plum-pudding. At
regular intervals, as he bent over his books, he felt his heart descend
swiftly to the soles of his feet; he paled at the sight of a telegraph
messenger, at the sound of the telephone bell. He had visions of
hospitals--of a white co