Of course there would be nasty
questions to-morrow; Theodore would look grave, and Ada would be
virtuously sour, and his mother--but perhaps they would not worry
her by disclosing such things. Unaccustomed to express himself with
violence, Christopher at about half-past twelve found some relief in
a timid phrase or two of swearing.
When he reached Shaftesbury Avenue he was dog-tired. The streets had
now become very quiet; he felt a doubt as to the possibility of
knocking at a house door. But Polly had said he was to do so, be the
hour what it might. The front of the house was dark, not a glimmer
in any windows. Doubtfully he drew near and knocked thrice.
Minutes passed, nearly five, in fact, then he knocked again. He
would wait five minutes more, and then--
But the door softly opened.
"That you?" said Polly's voice.
"Yes, it is."
She opened the door wide, and he saw by the light from the street
that she was dressed as usual.
"How late you are! Well? Can't you speak?"
"I'm dead beat, that's the truth," he replied, leaning against the
door-post.
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