meanly, revealing signs of an energy that in anything but a steam pipe
might have been mistaken for a promise to do better.

Mr. Bingle poked the fire and looked at his watch. Then he crossed to
the window, drew the curtains and shade aside and tried to peer
through the frosty panes into the street, seven stories below. A holly
wreath hung suspended in the window, completely obscured from view on
one side by hoar frost, on the other by a lemon-coloured window shade
that had to be handled with patience out of respect for a lapsed
spring at the top. He scraped a peep-hole in the frosty surface, and,
after drying his fingers on his smoking jacket, looked downward with
eyes a-squint.

"Do sit down, Tom," said his wife from her chair by the fireplace. "A
watched pot never boils. You can't see them from the window, in any
event."

"I can see the car when it stops at the corner, my dear," said Mr.
Bingle, enlarging the peep-hole with a vigour that appeared to be
aggravated by advice. "Melissa said seven o'clock and it is four
minutes after now."

"You forget that Melissa didn't start until after she had cleared away
the dinner things. She--"

"I know, I know," he interrupted, still peering. "But that was an hour
ago, Mary. I think a car is stopping at the corner now. No! It didn't
stop, so there must have been some one waiting to get on instead of
off."