So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases.

The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him.

Once or twice he thought of going away.
At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened.

"How late you are, Harry!" he murmured.
"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr.Gray," answered a shrill voice.
He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet.

"I beg your pardon.