He sighed. “All the same I was disappointed.”
She made a little grimace. Her husband was bidding farewell to his friends. She leaned towards him confidentially.
“Perhaps if I had,” she whispered, “there would have been no Mr. Frank Lloyd.”...
Back to his chair and solitude. Jacob made his way presently through the darkened rooms and passages to his own apartments, where a servant was waiting for him, the evening papers were laid out, whisky and soda and sandwiches were on the sideboard. His valet relieved him of his dresscoat and smoothed the smoking jacket around him.
“Anything more I can do for you to-night, sir?”
Jacob looked around the empty room, looked at his luxurious single easy-chair, at all the resources of comfort provided for him, and shook his head.
“Nothing, Richards,” he answered shortly. “Good night!”
“Good night, sir!”
Jacob subsided into the easy-chair, filled his pipe mechanically, lit and smoked it mechanically, knocked out the ashes when he had finished it, turned out the lights and passed into his bedroom, undressed and went to bed, still without any interest or thought for what he was doing. When he found himself still awake in a couple of hours’ time, he took himself to task fiercely.