It must be hard on ten o'clock.

Or, no, there was the bell of St.
Peter's proclaiming the half-hour after nine.
He was ashamed to return to the house, yet he must return; and by-and-by, reluctantly and doggedly, he set his face that way.

The wind and rain had cooled his brow, but not his brain, and he was still in a fever of resentment and shame when his lagging feet brought him to the house.

He passed it irresolutely once, unable to make up his mind to enter and face them.

Then, cursing himself for a poltroon, he turned again and made for the door.
He was within half a dozen strides of it when a dark figure detached itself from the doorway, and stumbled down the steps.