Make my excuses to your husband.

Good-night." "Clarence!" But he had already closed the door behind him.

His face did not relax its expression nor change as he looked again at the tray with its broken viands before the door, the worn, stained hall carpet, or the waiter who shuffled past him.

He was apparently as critically conscious of them and of the close odors of the hall, and the atmosphere of listless decay and faded extravagance around him, as before the interview.

But if the woman he had just parted from had watched him she would have supposed he still utterly disbelieved her story.