a minute."

He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg. He
played badly and vulgarly, but the performance was not
without its effect, for Jacky said she thought she'd be
going to bed. As she receded, a new set of interests
possessed the boy, and he began to think of what had been
said about music by that odd Miss Schlegel--the one that
twisted her face about so when she spoke. Then the thoughts
grew sad and envious. There was the girl named Helen, who
had pinched his umbrella, and the German girl who had smiled
at him pleasantly, and Herr someone, and Aunt someone, and
the brother--all, all with their hands on the ropes. They
had all passed up that narrow, rich staircase at Wickham
Place, to some ample room, whither he could never follow
them, not if he read for ten hours a day. Oh, it was not
good, this continual aspiration. Some are born cultured;
the rest had better go in for whatever comes easy. To see
life steadily and to see it whole was not for the likes of him.

From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called, "Len?"

"You in bed?" he asked, his forehead twitching.

"M'm."

"All right."

Presently she called him again.