"Good-night, James!—good-night! And once more a thousand welcomes and a thousand thanks. You have been a drop of water in the desert to a parching man. Good-night, and pleasant dreams to you! I'll reckon up my losses in the morning and write you a cheque. Good-night!"
Milbanke responded to the pressure of his fingers.
"Don't trouble about the money," he said. "Any time will do—any time. But you're turning in yourself? We'll be upstairs together?"
But Asshlin shook his head.
"Not yet," he said. "Not after this. I'll take a turn across the fields and have a look at the night on the water. I feel too much awake to be smothered by sheets and blankets. It isn't often we feel life here—and the sensation is glorious."
He drew up his tall, powerful figure and stretched out his arms. Then almost at once he let them fall to his sides.
"But what moonshine this is to you, you prosaic Saxon!" he exclaimed. "Let me light you to bed."
He laughed quickly; and, picking up one of the massive candlesticks, moved towards the door.
For an instant Milbanke lingered in the dining-room, grown dimmer with the departing lights; then, hearing his name in his host's voice, he hurried after him into the hall.
Asshlin was standing at the foot of the stairs, the glowing candles held aloft. Above him, the high ceiling loomed shadowy and indistinct; behind him, the dark wainscoted wall threw his figure into bold relief.