On the morning following the night of fog Chilcote woke at nine. He woke at the moment that his man Allsopp tiptoed across the room and laid the salver with his early cup of tea on the table beside the bed.
For several seconds he lay with his eyes shut; the effort of opening them on a fresh day—the intimate certainty of what he would see on opening them—seemed to weight his lids. The heavy, half-closed curtains; the blinds severely drawn; the great room with its splendid furniture, its sober coloring, its scent of damp London winter; above all, Allsopp, silent, respectful, and respectable—were things to dread.
A full minute passed while he still feigned sleep. He heard Allsopp stir discreetly, then the inevitable information broke the silence:
“Nine o'clock, sir!”
He opened his eyes, murmured something, and closed them again.
The man moved to the window, quietly pulled back the curtains and half drew the blind.
“Better night, sir, I hope?” he ventured, softly.
Chilcote had drawn the bedclothes over his face to screen himself from the daylight, murky though it was.
“Yes,” he responded. “Those beastly nightmares didn't trouble me, for once.” He shivered a little as at some recollection. “But don't talk—don't remind me of them. I hate a man who has no originality.” He spoke sharply. At times he showed an almost childish irritation over trivial things.
Allsopp took the remark in silence. Crossing the wide room, he began to lay out his master's clothes. The action affected Chilcote to fresh annoyance.