Hugh and Cynthia, still clinging to each other, looked at him. Slowly Cynthia took her arms from around Hugh's neck and forced herself from his embrace. Norry disappeared into his room and came out a minute later with his coat on; he had just begun to undress when he had heard a noise in the study. "I'll see you home, Cynthia," he said quietly. He took her arm and led her out of the room--and locked the door behind him. Hugh stared at them blankly, swaying slightly, completely befuddled. Cynthia went with Norry willingly enough, leaning heavily on his arm and occasionally sniffing. When he returned to his room, Hugh was sitting on the floor staring at a photograph of Norry's mother. He had been staring at it for ten minutes, holding it first at arm's length and then drawing it closer and closer to him. No matter where he held it, he could not see what it was--and he was determined to see it. Norry walked up to him and reached for the photograph. "Give me that," he said curtly. "Take your hands on my mother's picture." "It's not," Hugh exclaimed angrily; "it's not. It's my musher, my own mu-musher--my, my own dear musher. Oh, oh!" He slumped down in a heap and began to sob bitterly, muttering, "Musher, musher, musher." Norry was angry. The whole scene was revolting to him. His best friend was a disgusting sight, apparently not much better than a gibbering idiot. And Hugh had shamefully abused his hospitality. Norry was no longer gentle and boyish; he was bitterly disillusioned. "Get up," he said briefly. "Get up and go to bed." "Tha's my musher. You said it wasn't my--my musher." Hugh looked up, his face wet with maudlin tears. Norry leaned over and snatched the picture from him. "Take your dirty hands off of that," he snapped. "Get up and go to bed." "Tha's my musher." Hugh was gently persistent. "It's not your mother. You make me sick. Go to bed." Norry tugged at Hugh's arm impotently; Hugh simply sat limp, a dead weight. Norry's gray eyes narrowed. He took a glass, filled it with cold water in the bedroom, and then deliberately dashed the water into Hugh's face. Then he repeated the performance. Hugh shook his head and rubbed his hands wonderingly over his face. "I'm no good," he said almost clearly. "I'm no good." "You certainly aren't. Come on; get up and go to bed." Again Norry tugged at his arm, and this time Hugh, clinging clumsily to the edge of the table by which he was sitting, staggered to his feet. "I'm a blot," he declared mournfully; "I'm no good, Norry. I'm an--an excreeshence, an ex-cree-shence, tha's what I am." "Something of the sort," Norry agreed in disgust. "Here, let me take off your coat."