The Pension sitting-room
emptied. Unless there was something special on hand--a dance, a romp,
a game, or some neighbours who dropped in for talk and music--it was
rarely occupied after nine o'clock. Daddy had already slipped home--he
had this mysterious way of disappearing when no one saw him go. At
this moment, doubtless, a wumbled book absorbed him over at the
carpenter's. Old Miss Waghorn sat in a corner nodding over her novel,
and the Pension cat, Borelle, was curled up in her sloping, inadequate
lap.
The big, worn velvet sofa in the opposite corner was also empty. On
romping nights it was the _train de Moscou_, where Jimbo sold tickets
to crowded passengers for any part of the world. To-night it was a
mere dead sofa, uninviting, dull.
He went across the darkened room, his head scraping acquaintance with
the ivy leaves that trailed across the ceiling. He slipped through the
little hall. In the kitchen he heard the shrill voice of Mme. Jequier
talking very loudly about a dozen things at once to the servant-girl,
or to any one else who was near enough to listen. Luckily she did not
see him. Otherwise he would never have escaped without another offer
of a hot-water bottle, a pot of home-made marmalade, or a rug and
pillow for his bed. He made his way downstairs into the street
unnoticed; but just as he reached the bottom his thundering tread
betrayed him.
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