About half-past three he went into the house, and found all dark and silent, the candles guttered out in their sockets. So he felt his way upstairs and closed his door.
But he could not sleep, because he saw Stamford every time he closed his eyes, and then Elizabeth as she looked the first time he met her at Mrs. Simpson’s sale; and all the time one sentence of Stamford’s rang in his ears with hideous reiteration: “After all—if she’d wanted you she wouldn’t have taken me. After all....” And so on, over and over again.
The birds awoke to the tune of it—the little maid creaked downstairs—Mrs. Jebb came more lightly after—Sam tramped across the gravel beneath the window—all to the same dull, aching tune.
At last Andy got up, bathed, shaved, and came down to face a life without Elizabeth.
Mrs. Jebb, herself, brought in the bacon and placed it on the table like a funeral meat.
“Won’t you have a boiled egg as well?” she asked in a low tone, such as is used in suggesting black gloves.
“No, thank you,” said Andy, opening the paper.
“Or a poached one on toast?” she urged.
Andy glanced at her.
“I want nothing more, thank you,” he said, curbing his impatience.