wall. It surprised him. He had always liked it, but it seemed that now
he was seeing it for the first time. It was cheap, that was what it was,
like everything else in this house. His mind went back to the house he
had just left, and he saw, first, the paintings, and next, Her, looking
at him with melting sweetness as she shook his hand at leaving. He
forgot where he was and Bernard Higginbotham's existence, till that
gentleman demanded:-

"Seen a ghost?"

Martin came back and looked at the beady eyes, sneering, truculent,
cowardly, and there leaped into his vision, as on a screen, the same eyes
when their owner was making a sale in the store below--subservient eyes,
smug, and oily, and flattering.

"Yes," Martin answered. "I seen a ghost. Good night. Good night,
Gertrude."

He started to leave the room, tripping over a loose seam in the
slatternly carpet.

"Don't bang the door," Mr. Higginbotham cautioned him.

He felt the blood crawl in his veins, but controlled himself and closed
the door softly behind him.

Mr. Higginbotham looked at his wife exultantly.

"He's ben drinkin'," he proclaimed in a hoarse whisper. "I told you he
would."