But no! You've got her there--in cap and apron--
she'll keep. You know she's here--you have your fling. And you stop three
days in Paris, and drop it to her casually, when you please, that you're a
free man. Yes, by George, I do mean to leave you like this. You're best
alone, by George. Good-night to you."
He went smartly away; but he had worked himself into a shaking fit, could
not have slept to save his life. A cigar at the open window was
inevitable.
He leaned far into the night. It was densely dark, and had been raining.
Soft scud drifted over his face; clouds in loose solution drenched the
earth. He smoked fiercely, inhaling great draughts and driving them out
into the fog. Being no thinker, his sensations took no body, but he broke
out now and again with pishes and pshaws, or scornfully--"Old Nevile--
hungry devil, what? Stalking about like a beast. Oh, she was right, she
was right. Pish! And there's an end of it."
He was aware of softly moving feet below--a measured tread. He listened
and heard them beyond dispute. "Nevile!" he said, "like a beast, padding
about his place." He listened on, grimly amused. Let him pad and rage.
But he was to be startled. A voice hailed him, not Ingram's.
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