Thurston smiled. "There's no sign of it going out, Jennings. Find a more plausible excuse."
"Won't you have a cold bite, sir?" asked Jennings, piteously. "You never touched the dinner."
Thurston shook his head, opening a book.
"A glass of wine, sir?"
"Nothing, Jennings. Don't bother, there's a good fellow—and don't come crawling in and out continually. I can't read; it disturbs me."
"Very well, sir," in a heart-broken voice. He went to the door, then tottered back again. "Another log on, sir, if you're not going to bed? But perhaps you are going to bed?"
"No, I shall sit up and read." The page before him was a blur. It lacked but a few minutes of twelve. If she would only come, no matter how—whether stormy, sulking or weeping—if she would only come. Even at the very last moment, to show him that she had, at least, some compunction—that she realized, in even a slight measure, what was owing him!
After putting another log on the fire, Jennings opened the window and looked out. Then he closed it, with a sigh, and stood in the shadow of the draperies watching Thurston, with his heart in his eyes. The clock commenced to strike. Thurston, sitting with his head over his book, ceased to hope. Every silvery chime fell on his head with a dull weight of pain. What had she not left him to infer from the fact of her not coming? Contempt, indifference, even fear. At the last stroke of twelve he raised his head and looked over at Jennings. The old man was the image of misery. Answering the command in Thurston's eyes, he slowly took a bunch of keys from his pocket. "I'll only put up the chain, yer lordship, in case—" He looked imploringly at Thurston.
"Lock it fast," answered Thurston. "Take the key out as usual, and go at once to bed."
The old man made a silent motion of assent, and tottered to the door. Suddenly there was a loud knock.