Relentlessly? That was scarcely correct. To me, owing to some mysterious change that I cannot explain, the clock had ceased to be a tyrannous and hateful monster. I did not care how fast it went or to what hour it pointed. Time was no longer precious, any more than the sand of the sea is precious.
"Aren't you going to have any breakfast?" asked Symington-Tearle.
"I'm not in the least hurry," replied Sarakoff. "I think I'll take a sip of coffee. Are you hungry, Harden?"
"No. I don't want anything save coffee. But I'm in no hurry."
My housemaid entered and announced that the gentleman who had been waiting in Dr. Symington-Tearle's car, and was now in the hall, wished to know if the doctor would be long.
"Oh, that is a patient of mine," said Symington-Tearle, "ask him to come in."
A large, stout, red-faced gentleman entered, wrapped in a thick frieze motor coat. He nodded to us briefly.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but time's getting on, Tearle. My consultation with Sir Peverly Salt was for half past nine, if you remember. It's that now."
"Oh, there's plenty of time," said Tearle. "Sit down, Ballard. It's nice and warm in here."
"It may be nice and warm," replied Mr. Ballard loudly, "but I don't want to keep Sir Peverly waiting."