downstairs and, peering through the banisters like a small blond
monkey, had snatched a cream meringue from a passing tray. Then for a
moment he had almost believed that they were all going to be happy
together.

That had been last night. Now there was nothing left but the bailiff,
still slightly befuddled, an incredible pile of unwashed dishes and an
atmosphere of stale tobacco. James Stonehouse had gone off early in a
black and awful temper. It seemed that at the last moment the
multi-millionaire had explained that owing to a hitch in his affairs he
was short of ready cash and would be glad of a small loan. Only
temporary, of course. Wouldn't have dreamed of asking, but meeting
such an old friend in such affluent circumstances----

So the eighth birthday had been forgotten. Robert himself could not
have explained why grief should have driven him to his father's
cigars-box. Perhaps it was just a _beau geste_ of defiance, or a
reminder that one day he too would be grown up and free. At any rate,
it was still a very large cigar. Though he puffed at it painstakingly,
blowing the smoke far out of the window so as to escape detection, the
result was not encouraging. The exquisite mauve-grey ash was indeed
less than a quarter of an inch long when his sense of wrong and
injustice deepened to an overwhelming despair. It was not only that
even Christine had failed him--everything was failing him. The shabby
plot of rising ground opposite, which justified Dr. Stonehouse's
contention that he looked out over open country, had become immersed in
a loathsome mist, greenish in hue, in which it heaved and rolled and
undulated like an uneasy reptile. The house likewise heaved, and
Robert had to lean hard against the lintel of the window to prevent
himself from falling out. A strange sensation of uncertainty--of