The rain lashed the window-panes, and the wind whistled past the front of the house. Stephen sat quite still, as if listening—it may have been to the storm.
"Well, here's your pipe, sir," Jennings continued, laying it by his master's side, "and your tobacco and the matches. If you'd smoke less and drink a glass or two more of the right stuff, it would be more to my liking."
Stephen filled his pipe with firm fingers. Then he laid it down, unlit, by his side.
"Bring me back the port, Jennings," he ordered, "and a glass for yourself."
Jennings obeyed promptly. Stephen filled both glasses, and the two men looked at each other as they held them out.
"Here's confusion to all women!" Stephen said, as he raised his to his lips.
"Amen, sir!" Jennings muttered.
They set down the two empty glasses. Stephen lit his pipe. He sat smoking stolidly, blowing out great clouds of smoke. Jennings retreated, coughing resentfully.
"Spoils the taste of good wine, that tobacco do," he snapped. "Good port like that should be left to lie upon the palate, so to speak. Bless me, what's that?"
Above the roar of the wind came another and unmistakable sound. The front door had been opened and shut. There were steps upon the stone floor of the hall—firm, familiar steps.