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His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his

unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to

his meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled

over the stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the

clatter of street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring

each minute that was left to him.

After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his

hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been

told to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear,

his mother watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips.

A tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the

clock struck six, he got up and went to the door. Then he turned

back and looked at her. Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild

appeal for mercy. It enraged him.