Kirke in his bedroom was sitting by a small table, bending over some neatly ruled sheets of paper. He kept an accurate account of all expenditures in his new venture. He did not notice the thunderstorm.
Lovering flung open the door but without noise and stepped inside.
"What's up with you?" demanded Kirke, regarding him coldly.
Lovering came close, his eyes rolling, his mouth pursed.
"Godamoighty, Duncan," he answered, in a hoarse whisper, "there's summat goin' on downstairs. It's that young rip, Delight. She's in Bastien's room, cryin'. I was just mountin' the stair, and stopped stock-still as a flash of lightning lit the hall when I spied her comin' down. She was sobbing with her hand to her bosom, and Bastien opened his door and came out and spoke to her and led her into his room and made the door fast, and I slipped up to let tha know the soort o' thing that's goin' on. Ah, what a lass to cuddle and kiss. And Bastien, Duncan, Bastien!"
Kirke's nerves were excited by the news. His senses were gratified by the disclosure of an intrigue beneath the roof. He suddenly became aware of the storm. He felt the air electric with inarticulate feeling, vibrant with passion.
"Stop here, Jack," he said to his friend, unwinding his angular legs from the legs of the chair as he rose. A bright spot burned on either cheek bone.
"What art goin' to do?" sputtered Lovering, always suspicious yet envious of Kirke.
"Wait here and see. There'll be some fun."
He slunk down the stairs like a shadow. Outside
