"Now that the summer
people are away, there isn't an occupied house within half a mile
of here. And he's not going to trudge a half-mile through the
snow, in this bitter cold, for the joy of telling lies. No, he's
down at the stables or else he's sneaked in through the kitchen;
the way he did that other time when he made a grandstand exit
after I'd ventured to lecture him on his general rottenness.
Remember how worried about him you were, that time; till we found
him sitting in the kitchen and pestering the maids? He--"
"But that time, he was only sulky," said the Mistress. "Not
insanely angry, as he is now. I do hope--"
"Stop worrying!" adjured the Master. "He's all right."
Which proved, for perhaps the trillionth time in history, that a
woman's intuitions are better worth following than a man's saner
logic. For Cyril was not all right. And, at every passing minute
he was less and less all right; until presently he was all wrong.
For the best part of an hour, in pursuance of her husband's
counsel, the Mistress sat and waited for the prodigal's return.
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