“If I was alone, I should be lying here just the same. I can’t sleep, and I like to look at the fire.”
“Seeing pictures, eh?” sneered Stanny.
“Sure, seeing pictures. . . . What fools we are to scrap with each other, Stanny. . . .”
“Sure, what fools!” agreed Stanny, suddenly falling quiet and mournful.—But instantly, he lost his temper again. “You needn’t think I’m going to take your bed and leave you lying on the floor!”
“Well, you know what you can do with it,” snarled Wilfred.
Stanny flung himself into Wilfred’s big chair, and the bed remained without an occupant.
The firelight filled the room. The rows of books looked gravely down from the tall shelves. Bye and bye Wilfred had the satisfaction of seeing the bitter, down-drawn face in the chair begin to relax. Stanny took a more comfortable position, and his head dropped over against one of the wings. But he was not yet asleep. From the borderland he murmured:
“She has enslaved my senses. . . . I am besotted . . . !”
Wilfred murmured involuntarily: “You don’t know it, but you are lucky it is only your senses. If it was your imagination that was enslaved, there would be no satisfaction possible; no escape; ever!”
There was no reply, and Wilfred looked over apprehensively. To his relief he perceived that Stanny had not heard it; he was asleep.