Yes; a demned wet blanket!
Sir Stephen yawned, helped himself to another glass of punch from the bowl at his elbow, and continued to bewail his lot.
Where was Denningham? Wet blanket or no, even he would be better than no one in this old barn.
It was beginning to grow dusk, and Steenie was not fond of moping in the twilight.
Memory and he were ill friends.
Yet memory, unbidden, came and perched herself beside him.
A small fire of logs crackled on the hearth. Autumn winds were cold, and he was not so young as he used to be.
It is wonderful how old a fit of loneliness can make one.
At that moment the light-hearted Steenie Berrington of Carlton House was an old man.
The hand that carried the glass to trembling lips shook.