“Perhaps it will be better so. She does not love me—she does not love as I love. I do not want half a heart. I will go away, and the sooner I am dead the better it will be for me. My life has ever been a bitter mistake. I am a visionary, and my last delusion will kill me!”
It was a relief to John Stimson, Sir Harold’s valet, that he had a legitimate cause for knocking at the door of his master’s study. A footman had appeared bearing the card of Colonel Greyson on a salver.
“He told me to see that he was not disturbed on any account,” he muttered; “but I shall risk it. I didn’t like the look in his face when he went into the study, and the awful silence within makes me uneasy.”
He took the salver from the footman, saying:
“All right. I will attend to this. Sir Harold is engaged. Where is Colonel Greyson?”
“In the blue drawing-room,” the footman replied.
“Thank you; that will do,” said the valet, as he tapped gently on the door.
To his surprise it was opened at once, and his master took the card with an exclamation of impatience.
“I told you not to disturb me, Stimson,” he said, harshly.
“But you never refuse to see the colonel, Sir Harold, and I felt anxious about you.”