'Edith all right?' he asked carelessly.

'Yes.'

'And--the little chap?'

'Yes.'

Conyngham glanced at his companion again. Horner's eyes had the
hard look that comes from hopelessness; his lips were dry and white.
He wore the air of one whose stake in the game of life was heavy,
who played that game nervously. For this was an ambitious man with
wife and child whom he loved. Conyngham's attitude towards Fate was
in strong contrast. He held his head up and faced the world without
encumbrance, without a settled ambition, without any sense of
responsibility at all. The sharp-eyed dog on the hearthrug looked
from one to the other. A moment before, the atmosphere of the room
had been one of ease and comfortable assurance--an atmosphere that
some men, without any warrant or the justification of personal
success or distinction, seem to carry with them through life. Since
Horner had crossed the threshold the ceaseless hum of the streets
seemed to be nearer, the sound of it louder in the room; the
restlessness of that great strife stirred the air. The fox terrier
laid himself on the hearthrug again, but instead of sleeping watched
his two human companions.

Conyngham filled his pipe. He turned to the table where the
matchbox stood at his elbow, took it up, rattled it, and laid it
down. He pressed the tobacco hard with his thumb, and, turning to
Horner, said sharply: