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Short Cruises
Short Cruises
THE CHANGELING
MR. GEORGE HENSHAW let himself in at the front door, and stood for some time wiping his boots on the mat The little house was ominously still, and a faint feeling, only partially due to the lapse of time since breakfast, manifested itself behind his waistcoat. He coughed—a matter-of-fact cough—and, with an attempt to hum a tune, hung his hat on the peg and entered the kitchen.
Mrs. Henshaw had just finished dinner. The neatly cleaned bone of a chop was on a plate by her side; a small dish which had contained a rice-pudding was empty; and the only food left on the table was a small rind of cheese and a piece of stale bread. Mr. Henshaw’s face fell, but he drew his chair up to the table and waited.
His wife regarded him with a fixed and offensive stare. Her face was red and her eyes were blazing. It was hard to ignore her gaze; harder still to meet it. Mr. Henshaw, steering a middle course, allowed his eyes to wander round the room and to dwell, for the fraction of a second, on her angry face.
“You’ve had dinner early?” he said at last, in a trembling voice.
“Have I?” was the reply.
Mr. Henshaw sought for a comforting explanation. “Clock’s fast,” he said, rising and adjusting it.
His wife rose almost at the same moment, and with slow deliberate movements began to clear the table.
“What—what about dinner?” said Mr. Henshaw, still trying to control his fears.
“Dinner!” repeated Mrs. Henshaw, in a terrible voice. “You go and tell that creature you were on the ‘bus with to get your dinner.”
Mr. Henshaw made a gesture of despair. “I tell you,” he said emphatically, “it wasn’t me. I told you so last night. You get an idea in your head and—”