throwin' refuge on my clean floors, it'll be the worse for 'im."
"There's another bit, over in the corner," said Wakefield, pointing.
Mrs. Wragge collected it, straightened her back, and looked curiously at the door of the washroom.
"What might they be doing in there so long?" she asked. Wakefield replied with dignity: "They might be doing almost anything, Matilda. What they are doing is washing a dog."
"I thought the master's voice sounded as though he were a bit put out over something."
"Not more than usual, Matilda."
"Well, it's none of my business."
"You bet it isn't."
"But, just the same, when Wragge told me that Mr. Finch had come 'ome with his collar hangin' loose and 'is fice dirty at this time in the morning, I says, 'Look out for squalls.'"
The door of the washroom opened. Renny and Piers, followed by Finch and the spaniel, came out. Renny picked up Wake and threw him across his shoulder. Upstairs he set him down in the hall and rumpled his hair. "Feel better?" he asked. Wake nodded, but he kept his eyes turned away from Finch. He could not bear to look at him. . . .
Finch lay on his bed all day. He was in a strange state, between sleeping and waking. He could not think clearly, and his head hurt him terribly. He felt as though the inside of it had become solid, while, over the surface, sharp pains trickled down into his neck. He had an abominable taste in the mouth. He had a light-headed, feverish feeling. It was impossible for him to arrange the events of the last twelve hours in proper sequence. He had never been so confused, so hopeless, in his life. All the muddle-headedness, the fear, the groping of his years, seemed to have harried him, jostled him, spiritually dishevelled, to this. He was an outcast in his own home, unspeakably alone. He asked himself the old question, What am I? He examined his
