in exchange, and a bent scarfpin and a worn-out old silver watch that had belonged to great-uncle Ben—­why, the ten dollars and forty cents allowed upon them was beyond all ordinary liberality; it was almost charity.  There was only one place in town where evening clothes were rented, and the suspicious persons in charge had insisted that William obtain from his father a guarantee to insure the return of the garments in perfect condition.  So that was hopeless.  And wasn’t it better, also, to wear clothes which had known only one previous occupant (as was the case with Mr. Beljus’s offering) than to hire what chance hundreds had hired?  Finally, there was only one thing to be considered and this was the fact that William had to have those clothes!

“Six minutes,” said Mrs. Baxter, glancing implacably at her watch.  “When it’s ten I’ll telephone.”

And the end of it was, of course, victory for the woman—­victory both moral and physical.  Three-quarters of an hour later she was unburdening the contents of the two baskets and putting the things back in place, illuminating these actions with an expression of strong distaste—­in spite of broken assurances that Mr. Beljus had not more than touched any of the articles offered to him for valuation.

...  At dinner, which was unusually early that evening, Mrs. Baxter did not often glance toward her son; she kept her eyes from that white face and spent most of her time in urging upon Mr. Baxter that he should be prompt in dressing for a card-club meeting which he and she were to attend that evening.  These admonitions of hers were continued so pressingly that Mr. Baxter, after protesting that there was no use in being a whole hour too early, groaningly went to dress without even reading his paper.

William had retired to his own room, where he lay upon his bed in the darkness.  He heard the evening noises of the house faintly through the closed door:  voices and the clatter of metal and china from the far-away kitchen, Jane’s laugh in the hall, the opening and closing of the doors.  Then his father seemed to be in distress about something.  William heard him complaining to Mrs. Baxter, and though the words were indistinct, the tone was vigorously plaintive.  Mrs. Baxter laughed and appeared to make light of his troubles, whatever they were—­and presently their footsteps were audible from the stairway; the front door closed emphatically, and they were gone.

Everything was quiet now.  The open window showed as a greenish oblong set in black, and William knew that in a little while there would come through the stillness of that window the distant sound of violins.  That was a moment he dreaded with a dread that ached.  And as he lay on his dreary bed he thought of brightly lighted rooms where other boys were dressing eagerly faces and hair shining, hearts beating high—­boys who would possess this last evening and the “last waltz together,” the last smile and the last sigh.