It seemed an almost superfluous thing to say, jammed in together and alone as they were in the flat, where a whisper almost passed through the walls. “Good-night,” she repeated, with sudden constraint. “Wait a bit”--he opened the drawing-room door--“I want to talk to you.” “I’m tired.” “But it’s very important.” She marveled at the remarkable change in him. He had become an impressive figure. He absolutely commanded her, as he stood by the open door, in his iron-gray suit. It was baggy at the knees and elbows. It was perfectly true that he had plenty of money now; but he could not shake off the careful habits of twenty years. He only had two new suits a year, and he scrupulously changed his coat whenever he came indoors. He threw out his hand and bowed--something in the way of a shop-walker. She walked into the room, without another word of protest. He went out again, putting his face back in his usual queer way, to throw at her the words: “I’ll be back in half a jiff. I’ll just put on my slippers and get my alpaca jacket.” When he came in again, she was sitting bolt upright on the lounge; she had not even turned up her veil, nor unbuttoned her long gloves. “Take off your things,” he said with ghastly jocularity. “Make yourself at home, you know.” Then he laughed nervously. It suddenly dawned on her that he was in a state of great tremor. His jocular tone, his silly, vulgar words--everything of him--jarred terribly. She reproached herself, condemned herself again for that hideous evening of frolic at a third-rate music-hall with such a creature. “I’ll keep my things on,” she said firmly. “Sometimes these summer nights are cold. It is going to rain.” He came and sat on the other end of the lounge, and stared at her with his unpleasant, expressionless eyes. He crossed first one leg and then the other; he stroked and tugged at the weakly growing hair on his face. “If you’ve anything to say,” she said crisply, “say it. It’s twenty past twelve.” “I’ve all night to say it in--he won’t come home.” She nearly struck him for that free, unctuous laugh. She would have whisked up and locked herself in her own room--but she couldn’t. Even a mean man is commanding in moments of tremendous excitement. It was obvious that Sutton was laboring to say something of moment; she was impelled to sit still and let him say it. “I don’t know where to begin,” he said helplessly, winding his watch-chain round his finger. “If it is business,” she said, suddenly becoming inspired with the idea that there was some financial difficulty, and he wished to confide in her, to break it to her, “don’t tell me. I shall not understand.” “I never talk business with a woman,” he returned with a sneer. “Oh! Then what do you talk?” “The one thing of any interest. You know what--but you like to tease me, you won’t help me out. It’s unkind to a poor beggar,” he said, with a fearful attempt at pathos and tenderness.