“Aren’t you coming to bed?” I asked.
“I’m not sleepy—you go to sleep,” he answered, resenting having to speak at all.
“Then put on a dressing gown—there’s one in that corner—turn the light on.”
He did not answer, but fumbled for the garment in the darkness. When he had found it, he said:
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
I did not. He fumbled again in his pockets for cigarettes, always refusing to switch on the light. I watched his face bowed to the match as he lighted his cigarette. He was still handsome in the ruddy light, but his features were coarser. I felt very sorry for him, but I saw that I could get no nearer to him, to relieve him. For some time I lay in the darkness watching the end of his cigarette like a ruddy, malignant insect hovering near his lips, putting the timid stars immensely far away. He sat quite still, leaning on the sofa arm. Occasionally there was a little glow on his cheeks as the cigarette burned brighter, then again I could see nothing but the dull red bee.
I suppose I must have dropped asleep. Suddenly I started as something fell to the floor. I heard him cursing under his breath.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I’ve only knocked something down—cigarette case or something,” he replied, apologetically.
“Aren’t you coming to bed?” I asked.