staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with
his mother, of avoiding the dreaded explanations, excuses,
confessions.

But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was
very quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong
of content in the kitchen.

He flicked on the light in the living-room. A new magazine had
come. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly.
He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the back
pages. Ads started back at him--clothing ads, paint ads, motor
ads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners--and toilette
preparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap.

He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that he
seemed to like the dusk. In his own bedroom it was very quiet.

He turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. He sat down
at the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! The
cub always started out on an impossibly difficult business stunt
and came back triumphant, to be made a member of the firm at once.

A vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him.
It grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. Then
an impudent square of yellow from a light turned on in the
apartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock stared
at it moodily.

A key turned in the lock. A door opened and shut. A quick step.