He leaned far into the night. It was densely dark, and had been raining. Soft scud drifted over his face; clouds in loose solution drenched the earth. He smoked fiercely, inhaling great draughts and driving them out into the fog. Being no thinker, his sensations took no body, but he broke out now and again with pishes and pshaws, or scornfully—“Old Nevile—hungry devil, what? Stalking about like a beast. Oh, she was right, she was right. Pish! And there's an end of it.”
He was aware of softly moving feet below—a measured tread. He listened and heard them beyond dispute. “Nevile!” he said, “like a beast, padding about his place.” He listened on, grimly amused. Let him pad and rage.
But he was to be startled. A voice hailed him, not Ingram's. “Beg your pardon, sir.”
“Hulloa!” he cried. “Who are you, my man?”
“Glyde, sir. Is all well?”
“What do you mean, Glyde? What are you doing?”
“I was passing, sir, to my houses. I heard voices, and I wondered—”
“Oh!” he laughed. “You thought there was a scrap, did you? It's all right, Glyde. I and the master were having a talk. Nothing for you to worry about. I shared his lonely meal. Don't you be disturbed.”
“No, no, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Chevenix called to him when he was at some distance. “I say, Glyde.”