But weary as she was, the realization of what must surely happen when Augustus returned, kept her in a condition of worried wakefulness. She knew so well what the interview at the door meant. He had got money from Mr. Haworth. There was no question in her mind as to what he would do with it, and, as a result, in what condition he would return to the house at two or three in the morning. If it could only be that he could come in and get to bed and to sleep without creating a terrifying disturbance, she would consider it serene and heavenly rest compared to what was to be expected, for he had reached the condition where alcohol came near to making a maniac of him. Shouts and curses and horrible songs; the throwing about of whatever came to his hand; the threatening of her, sometimes with a revolver—an enormous thing which he insisted on keeping under his pillow—all this was to be expected if he had money enough to buy drinks. And if Mr. Haworth had given him anything it was enough, for there were no trunks to spend it on; all that was pure fiction. Everything they owned had gone to the pawnshops long ago. As it happened, however, her anxiety as to the home-coming of Augustus was misplaced. It should have been applied to future occasions. Findlay came in at a quarter before seven, a trifle electrified, to be sure, but not to a voltage that was shocking. The three sat down to dinner in what had once been the breakfast room—opening off the present living room at its rear end, opposite the swing door of the butler’s pantry. It was, for that house, a rather small, cheerful place with a big bay window on the south side. At this meal Augustus conversed with himself brilliantly. Haworth said little, but looked smilingly on in his detached way. Edith, who said hardly anything, stole an occasional glance at him. Hulda waited on them. A cat came in from somewhere and entered pleas for refreshments,—not in vain. When dinner was over the three went back to the large room, Haworth sitting there with his guests for half an hour or so; then, excusing himself, and telling them that breakfast was whenever they asked for it (he remembered old Cripps used to tell his visitors that), he went down to his shop in the basement. He had an unusual experience there—something quite unexpected for him. He found that, for some reason, he was utterly unable to keep his mind on his work—work which had always so completely engrossed him that he had often found it impossible, when he ought to have done so, to keep his mind away from it. He had begun on the first rough draft of a problem that had been on his mind for days, and only that morning he had got it. Consequently he was more than eager to get it down on paper. But again and again after he had started on the sketch, he would suddenly rouse himself to find that he was sitting with pencil poised, doing nothing. He would seem to wake up from something and find himself in this extraordinary situation.