He sat up until half-past one with the chamber growing ever more chill and empty, and his heart sinking as he thought of accidents that might have befallen them. He was asleep on their return and never knew its precise hour. They gave a perfectly frank and probable account of their doings: dinner at a grill-room, a music-hall, supper at a German restaurant, and then on to an At Home at the Schlegelmeiers', where there had been a squash so thick that once you were in a room it was impossible to move to any of the others. They had been wedged into the gallery of the great drawing-room at Withington House, where the principal entertainment had been a Scotch comedian who chanted lilting ballads. It was this distinguished artist's habit to make his audience sing the chorus of each song, and it had been diverting to see duchesses and ladies of high degree and political hostesses singing with the abandon of the gods at an outlying two-shows-a-night house: _Rolling, rolling in the heather, All in the bonny August weather, There was me and Leezy Lochy in the dingle, There was Jock and Maggie Kay in the dell, For ilka lassie has her laddie, And ilka laddie has his lassie, And what they dae together I'll na tell, But Leezy, Leezy Lochy in the dingle, Is bonny as the moon above the heather._ Matilda sang the song all through and made Old Mole and Panoukian troll the chorus. There were a freshness and warmth about her that were almost startling, full of mischief and sparkling fun. She teased both the men and mysteriously promised them a great reward if they could guess a riddle. "My second is in woman but not in man, my first is French, I have two syllables, and you'll never guess." "Where did you get it?" asked Panoukian. "I made it up." So they tried to guess and soon confessed themselves beaten. Then she told them that the second half of the riddle was _sense_, because she never knew a man who had it; and the first half was _non_ and together they made _nonsense_, because she felt like it. Her mood lasted for five days. Panoukian came in every evening--(she was rehearsing for a new play, but only in the daytime)--and they frolicked and sang and burlesqued their own solemn discussions. On the sixth day her high spirits sank and she was moody and silent. She forbade Panoukian to come in the evening. He came at teatime, and she stayed out. One day Old Mole had tea with Panoukian. They walked in the Temple Gardens afterward, and Panoukian blurted out: "I don't know if your wife has told you, sir, but after we left the Schlegelmeiers' it was such a glorious night, and we were so glad to be in the air again, that we took a taxi and drove down to Richmond and came back in the dawn. There wasn't any harm in it, as you and I see things, but I've been thinking it over and come to the conclusion that you ought to know." A sudden anger took possession of Old Mole, and he retorted: