“That’s the worst of my mother,” said Clara. “She never wants a stool for anything.”
“But she often can’t touch that lady with a long prop,” retorted Mrs. Radford to Paul.
“I s’d think she doesn’t want touching with a prop,” he laughed. “I shouldn’t.”
“It might do the pair of you good to give you a crack on the head with one,” said the mother, laughing suddenly.
“Why are you so vindictive towards me?” he said. “I’ve not stolen anything from you.”
“No; I’ll watch that,” laughed the older woman.
Soon the supper was finished. Mrs. Radford sat guard in her chair. Paul lit a cigarette. Clara went upstairs, returning with a sleeping-suit, which she spread on the fender to air.
“Why, I’d forgot all about them!” said Mrs. Radford. “Where have they sprung from?”
“Out of my drawer.”
“H’m! You bought ’em for Baxter, an’ he wouldn’t wear ’em, would he?”—laughing. “Said he reckoned to do wi’out trousers i’ bed.” She turned confidentially to Paul, saying: “He couldn’t bear ’em, them pyjama things.”
The young man sat making rings of smoke.
“Well, it’s everyone to his taste,” he laughed.
Then followed a little discussion of the merits of pyjamas.
“My mother loves me in them,” he said. “She says I’m a pierrot.”
“I can imagine they’d suit you,” said Mrs. Radford.
After a while he glanced at the little clock that was ticking on the mantelpiece. It was half-past twelve.
“It is funny,” he said, “but it takes hours to settle down to sleep after the theatre.”
“It’s about time you did,” said Mrs. Radford, clearing the table.
“Are you tired?” he asked of Clara.
“Not the least bit,” she answered, avoiding his eyes.
“Shall we have a game at cribbage?” he said.
“I’ve forgotten it.”
“Well, I’ll teach you again. May we play crib, Mrs. Radford?” he asked.
“You’ll please yourselves,” she said; “but it’s pretty late.”
“A game or so will make us sleepy,” he answered.
Clara brought the cards, and sat spinning her wedding-
