pleasant evenings a man can have in town, and pitied the prosaic beggars
who never stir from the house at night.

On Friday evening he came home hurriedly, staying just long enough to
shave and change his collar. Ethel had on a pretty dress and seemed very
cheerful. A strange sinking came over him as he saw the familiar room
shining with firelight and the shabby armchair.

"Would you rather I stayed at home?" he asked.

"Not a bit," she said, quite as though she meant it. "Diana has a steak
in the oven, and I've got a new book to read. I won't wait up for you."

He kissed her and went off.

When he got on the trolley a sudden revulsion struck him. He was tired
and wanted to go home. Why on earth spend the evening with a lot of
drunken rowdies when he might be at his own hearth watching Ethel's face
bent over her sewing? He saw little enough of her anyway.

At the door of the club he halted. Inside, the crowd was laughing,
shouting jests, dicing for cocktails. Suddenly he turned and ran.

He cursed himself for a fool, but none the less an irresistible force
seemed to draw him home. On the car he sat glum and silent, wondering
how all the other men could read their papers so contentedly.

At last he reached the modest little suburb. He hurried along the street
and had almost entered his gate when he paused.