He wandered across and stopped again by the elaborate writing-desk and looked at it. He might write to some one. He sat down and drew a sheet of paper toward him and looked at the neatly cut inscription across the top—"The Berkeley House of Mercy"—his prison cell, he thought grimly. His fingers reached out for a half-smoked cigar—and drew back and smoothed the paper thoughtfully and took up the pen and dipped it in the ink and waited.
He would write to Julian. He had not written to Julian in his own handwriting—not since the boy was a pupil at Exeter—that was ten years ago.... He was his own secretary those days.
He wrote: "My dear Julian." Then he waited. He was seeing Julian as he used to look when he was at Exeter; he had been such a fresh, clear-faced boy; he had been proud of him—and Julian's mother.... The millionaire was living over those first days of life together—the time when Julian was born—he had not thought of it for years—all her pretty ways in the house—and the garden he had made for her, and her coming to meet him when he came from the office at night.... And then the days when she had seemed to fade like a flower and they had carried her out of the house—and there had been no one but the boy to come running to meet him when he came home— But the boy had hurt him and he had sent him away ... and the loneliness since.... The empty house at night, and the great void spaces of life that opened on every side. He had thrown gold into them—and he had reached out for more gold—great heaped-up masses of gold and bonds and thrifty investments; and the gold had mounted higher every year—till it seemed to shut him off from every one.... No one came to him now except for money—or about money. Even Julian hardly wrote except to ask for a check or to acknowledge one. And he only knew the boy's address through his bankers.... It was somewhere on the Riviera, the last time. He dipped the pen again in the ink.
There was a knock at the door and he turned. It was Miss Canfield, the nurse who had been assigned him. She carried a long, light box. She held it out.
"Some flowers for you."
He reached up his hand, half pleased. He had not expected any one would send flowers to him.
She undid the wrapper and handed him the box.... On the top lay a card edged in black. He put on his eye-glasses and took it up.
"Mrs. Cawein——"
His face fell a little. She was his partner's wife—his late partner's widow, that is—she had a right to send flowers to him, of course—if she chose.
He set the box down on the desk and took up his pen. The nurse brought a large vase and placed it beside him and arranged the flowers. They were huge yellow roses, with long stems and crisp leaves—a kind of salmon-pink yellow. Herman Medfield glanced at them grudgingly. It seemed to him they were a singularly displeasing color. He had not supposed there were any roses of that shade of yellow! He grew roses himself, and he knew something about them. He shrugged his shoulder a little toward them and took up the pen.