The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. Stanley poured wine. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. “I will wait for you on the pavement, if you like,” he said, “but I am going to the ‘Unusual’ with you. She chuckled. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste.
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