"Sorry our evening has come to an end," he said as they stood outside his door. "It is the last we shall have to ourselves. Pity. But it can't be helped."
Unconsciously he opened the door as he spoke, and Stafford said:
"Is this your room, sir?"
"Yes; walk in, my boy," replied Sir Stephen.
Stafford walked in and stood stock-still with amazement. The room was as plainly furnished as a servant's—more plainly, probably, than the servants who were housed under his roof. Saving for a square of carpet by the bed and dressing-table the floor was bare; the bed was a common one of iron, narrow and without drapery, the furniture was of painted deal. The only picture was a portrait of Stafford enlarged from a photograph, and it hung over the mantel-piece so that Sir Stephen could see it from the bed. Of course neither Stafford nor Howard made any remark.
"Remember that portrait, Stafford?" asked Sir Stephen, with a smile. "I carry it about with me wherever I go. Foolish and fond old father, eh, Mr. Howard? It's a good portrait, don't you think?"
Stafford held out his hand.
"Good-night, sir," he said in a very low voice.
"Good-night, my boy! Sure you've got everything you want? And you, Mr. Howard? Don't let me disturb you in the morning. I've got a stupid habit of getting up early—got it years ago, and it clings, like other habits. Hope you'll sleep well. If you don't, change your rooms before the crowd comes. Good-night."
"Did you see the room?" asked Stafford, huskily, when he and Howard had got into Stafford's.