John Hubert was quite alone. A letter from Christopher, one from Anne. He read them both many times over, smiled and shut his eyes. Nowadays, he was always sleepy. He looked at the clock. Too early to go to bed. He walked up and down in the quiet rooms.
From the green room the light of the lamp reached the dining room. The sunshine room received light from a lamp in the street which spread over the ceiling. The old nursery was quite dark.
John Hubert folded his hands behind his back and walked slowly from darkness into light, from light into darkness. He thought of his life. It had been like that too, but now that he looked back on it there seemed to have been more darkness than light.
He could not understand what made him think of this just now when his head was weary enough. For an instant he intended sending for the doctor. Then he felt too tired to do it.
While he slowly turned the key in his watch, he felt giddy, yet he put all the various objects from his pocket into the alabaster tray. His keys, his penknife and the cigar case embroidered with beads. This he carried as a habit, having renounced smoking several years ago.
Next day was Sunday. He did not get out of bed. From time to time Tini came in to ask if he wanted anything. He opened his eyes, nodded, but said nothing.
Gárdos, the physician, reassured him.
“It will pass away; it is only a little overwork,” and prescribed nux vomica.
“No, you must not write to the children.”
During the week John Hubert was up. On Sunday he again stayed in bed and felt better there. A letter came from Anne. He smiled at it. So there was one person in the world who owed him her happiness.... He smoothed his blanket down and turned to the wall.