Through the half-drawn curtains he could see Ethel sitting comfortably
by the lamp. She was reading, and the cat was in her lap. His heart
leaped with a great throb. But how could he go in now? It was barely
eight o'clock. After all his talk about a man's need of relaxation and
masculine comradeship--why, she would never stop laughing! He turned and
tiptoed away.

That evening was a nightmare for Simmons. Opposite his house was a
little suburban park, and thither he took himself. For a long while he
sat on a bench cursing. Twice he started for the trolley, and again
returned. It was a damp autumn night; little by little the chill pierced
his light coat and he sneezed. Up and down the little park he tramped,
biting a dead cigar. Once he went as far as the drugstore and bought a
box of crackers.

At last--it seemed years--the church chimes struck ten and he saw the
lights go out in his house. He forced himself to make twenty-five more
trips around the gravel walk and then he could wait no longer. Shivering
with weariness and cold, he went home.

He let himself in with his latch key and tiptoed upstairs. He leaned
over the bed and Ethel stirred sleepily.

"What time is it, dear?" she murmured. "You're early, aren't you?"

"One o'clock," he lied bravely--and just then the dining-room clock
struck half-past ten and supported him.

"Did you have a good time?"