“It’s all right,” said Philip, as though he were speaking to a child of five. “There’s nothing to cry about. You’ll be home in a moment.” He was desperately annoyed at the misfortune. Why could he not have seen that Henry was drinking too much? But Henry had drunk so little. Then he had had champagne at dinner. He wasn’t used to it. Philip cursed his own stupidity. Now if they made a noise on the way to Henry’s room there might follow fatal consequences. If anyone should see them! Henry’s sobs had ceased: he seemed to be asleep. Philip shook his arm. “Look here! We must take care not to wake anyone. Here we are! Quietly now, and where’s your key?” “Wash key?” said Henry. Philip had a horrible suspicion that Henry had forgotten his key. He searched. Ah! there it was in the waistcoat pocket. Henry put his arms round Philip’s neck. “They’ve turned the roa’ upside down,” he whispered confidentially. “We mustn’t lose each other.” They entered the dark hall. Philip with one arm round Henry’s waist. Henry sat on the lowest step of the stairs. “I’ll shtay here to-night,” he said. “It’s shafer,” and was instantly asleep. Philip lifted him, then with Henry’s boots tapping the stairs at each step, they moved upwards. Henry was heavy, and at the top Philip had to pause for breath. Suddenly the boy slipped from his arms and fell with a crash. The whole house re-echoed. Philip’s heart stopped beating, and his only thought was, “Now I’m done. They’ll all be here in a moment. They’ll drive me away. Katherine will never speak to me again.” A silence followed abysmally deep, only broken by some strange snore that came from the heart of the house (as though it were the house that was snoring) and the ticking of two clocks that, in their race against one another, whirred and chuckled. Philip picked Henry up again and proceeded. He found the room, pushed open the door, closed it and switched on the light. He then undressed Henry, folding the clothes carefully, put upon him his pyjamas, laid him in bed and tucked him up. Henry, his eyes closed as though by death, snored heavily.... Philip turned the light out, crept into the passage, listened, stole downstairs, let himself into the Square, where he stood for a moment, in the cold night air, the only living thing in a sleeping world, then hastened away. “Thank Heaven,” he thought, “we’ve escaped.” He had _not_ escaped. Aunt Aggie, a fantastic figure in a long blue dressing-gown, roused by Henry’s fall, had watched, from her bedroom door, the whole affair. She waited until she had heard the hall-door close, then stole down and locked it, stole up again and disappeared silently into her room. * * * * *