He held the receiver, looking at the door through which the vague, troubling wind came.
He began to say something out of a book he had read:
“Less oft is peace.
Less oft is peace,” he said.
The wire answered.
“Hello!
Hello!
Belle?” Horace said.
“Yes?” her voice came back thin and faint.
“What is it?
Is anything wrong?”
“No, no,” Horace said.
“I just wanted to tell you hello and good-night.”
“Tell what?
What is it?
Who is speaking?”
Horace held the receiver, sitting in the dark hall.
“It’s me, Horace.
Horace.
I just wanted to—”
Over the thin wire there came a scuffling sound; he could hear Little Belle breathe.
Then a voice said, a masculine voice:
“Hello, Horace; I want you to meet a—”
“Hush!” Little Belle’s voice said, thin and faint; again Horace heard them scuffling; a breathless interval.
“Stop it!” Little Belle’s voice said.
“It’s Horace!
I live with him!”
Horace held the receiver to his ear.
Little Belle’s voice was breathless, controlled, cool, discreet, detached.
“Hello.
Horace.
Is Mamma all right?”
“Yes.
We’re all right.
I just wanted to tell you.……”
“Oh.
Good-night.”
“Good-night.
Are you having a good time?”
“Yes.
Yes.
I’ll write tomorrow.
Didn’t Mamma get my letter today?”
“I dont know.
I just—”
“Maybe I forgot to mail it.
I wont forget tomorrow, though.
I’ll write tomorrow.
Was that all you wanted?”
“Yes.