Stephen, who had met his visitor at the station, had intended to drive him back there. But after their spurt of temper he sent him with the boy. He remained in the doorway, glad that he was going to make money, glad that he had been angry; while the glow of the clear sky deepened, and the silence was perfected, and the scents of the night grew stronger. Old vagrancies awoke, and he resolved that, dearly as he loved his house, he would not enter it again till dawn. "Goodnight!" he called, and then the child came running, and he whispered, "Quick, then! Bring me a rug.""Good-night," he repeated, and a pleasant voice called through an upper window, "Why good-night?" He did not answer until the child was wrapped up in his arms.
"It is time that she learnt to sleep out," he cried. "If you want me, we're out on the hillside, where I used to be."The voice protested, saying this and that.
"Stewart's in the house," said the man, "and it cannot matter, and I am going anyway.""Stephen, I wish you wouldn't. I wish you wouldn't take her.
Promise you won't say foolish things to her. Don't--I wish you'd come up for a minute--"The child, whose face was laid against his, felt the muscles in it harden.
"Don't tell her foolish things about yourself--things that aren't any longer true. Don't worry her with old dead dreadfulness. To please me--don't.""Just tonight I won't, then."