One light was still burning below, and she could see distinctly.

A man was clumsily, heavily, ascending the staircase, holding on to the balustrade.

He was singing to himself, breaking into the maudlin harmony with an occasional laugh-- "For this is the way we do it on the veld, When the band begins to play; With one bottle on the table and one below the belt, When the band begins to play--" It was Rudyard, and he was drunk--almost helplessly drunk.
A cry of pain rose to her lips, but her trembling hand stopped it.

With a shudder she turned back to her sitting-room.

Throwing herself on the divan where she had sat with Ian Stafford, she buried her face in her arms.