"She doesn't seem to like me and my stories," thought I, "but she is too young, perhaps, to appreciate them."
So I forgave her—for she was even prettier than I had thought her at first—and I took my leave, saying that Mr. Halyard would doubtless direct me to my room.
Halyard was in his library, cleaning a revolver, when I entered.
"Your room is next to mine," he said; "pleasant dreams, and kindly refrain from snoring."
"May I venture an absurd hope that you will do the same!" I replied, politely.
That maddened him, so I hastily withdrew.
I had been asleep for at least two hours when a movement by my bedside and a light in my eyes awakened me. I sat bolt upright in bed, blinking at Halyard, who, clad in a dressing-gown and wearing a night-cap, had wheeled himself into my room with one hand, while with the other he solemnly waved a candle over my head.
"I'm so cursed lonely," he said—"come, there's a good fellow—talk to me in your own original, impudent way."
I objected strenuously, but he looked so worn and thin, so lonely and bad-tempered, so lovelessly grotesque, that I got out of bed and passed a spongeful of cold water over my head.
Then I returned to bed and propped the pillows up for a back-rest, ready to quarrel with him if it might bring some little pleasure into his morbid existence.