"Why, yes, mother," he said, "that would be very nice. It is a long time
since we had anybody to Christmas dinner."

"Well, suppose you run in after tea and ask them," replied Mrs. White, in
the friendliest of tones.

"Yes, I'll go," answered Stephen, feeling as if he were a man talking in a
dream. "I have been meaning to go in ever since they came."

After tea, Stephen sat counting the minutes till he should go. To all
appearances, he was buried in his newspaper, occasionally reading a
paragraph aloud to his mother. He thought it better that she should remind
him of his intention to go; that the call should be purely at her
suggestion. The patience and silence with which he sat waiting for her to
remember and speak of it were the very essence of deceit again,--twice in
this one hour an acted lie, of which his dulled conscience took no note
or heed. Fine and impalpable as the meshes of the spider's-web are the
bands and bonds of a habit of concealment; swift-growing, too, and in
ever-widening circles, like the same glittering net woven for death.

At last Mrs. White said, "Steve, I think it's getting near nine o'clock.
You'd better go in next door before it's any later."

Stephen pulled out his watch. By his own sensations, he would have said
that it must be midnight.

"Yes, it is half-past eight. I suppose I had better go now," he said, and
bade his mother good-night.

He went out into the night with a sense of ecstasy of relief and joy. He