In the car Mr. Prohack said: 

“Tell me something more about that paper-making business.  It sounds interesting.”

III

When Mr. Prohack reached his daughter’s house again late in the night, it was his wife who opened the door to him.

“Good heavens, Arthur!  Where have you been?  Poor Sissie is in such a state—­I was obliged to come over and stay with her.  She needs the greatest care.”

“We had a breakdown,” said Mr. Prohack, rather guiltily.

“Who’s we?  Where?  What breakdown?  You went off without saying a word to any one.  I really can’t imagine what you were thinking about.  You’re just like a child sometimes.”

“I went down to Southampton with Charlie,” the culprit explained, giving a brief and imperfect history of the day, and adding that on the way home he had made a detour with Charles to look at a paper-manufactory.

“And you couldn’t have telephoned!”

“Never thought of it!”

“I’ll run and tap at Sissie’s door and tell her.  Ozzie’s with her.  You’d better go straight to bed.”

“I’m hungry.”

Eve made a deprecating and expostulatory noise with her tongue against her upper teeth.

“I’ll bring you something to eat.  At least I’ll try to find something,” said she.

“And are you sleeping here, too?  Where?” Mr. Prohack demanded when Eve crept into Charlie’s old bedroom with a tray in her hands.

“I had to stay.  I couldn’t leave the girl.  I’m sleeping in her old room.”

“The worst of these kids’ rooms,” said Mr. Prohack, with an affectation of calm, “is that there are no easy chairs in them.  It never struck me before.  Look here, you sit on the bed and put the tray down there, and I’ll occupy this so-called chair.  Now, I don’t want any sermons.  And what is more, I can’t eat unless you do.  But I tell you I’m very hungry.  So would you be, if you’d had my day.”

“You won’t sleep if you eat much.”

“I don’t care if I don’t.  Is this whiskey?  What—­bread and cheese?  The simple life!  I’m not used to it....  Where are you off to?”

“There came a letter for you.  I brought it along.  It’s in the other bedroom.”

“Open it for me, my good child,” said Mr. Prohack, his mouth full and his hands occupied, when she returned.  She did so.

“It seems to me that you’d better read this yourself,” she said, naughtily.

The letter was from Lady Massulam, signed only with her initials, announcing with a queer brevity that she had suddenly decided to go back at once to her native country to live.

“How strange!” exclaimed Mr. Prohack, trying to be airy.  “Listen!  What do you make of it.  You’re a woman, aren’t you?”

“I make of it,” said Eve, “that she’s running away from you.  She’s afraid of herself, that’s what she is!  Didn’t I always tell you?  Oh!  Arthur.  How simple you are!  But fancy!  At her age!  Oh, my poor boy!  Shall you get over it?” Eve bent forward and kissed the poor boy, who was cursing himself for not succeeding in not being self-conscious.