As a matter of fact, Mr. Sheridan had slept as soundly as a baby, but having been entirely unconscious while he did so, he certainly could not have known whether he was asleep or awake. But his latest fancy was that he suffered from insomnia. Insomnia was the traditional affliction of all broken-hearted lovers, and there was no ailment common to the broken hearted that Mr. Sheridan would allow himself to forego.
“Any letters, Peterson?”
Of course there were no letters. In the first place, who knew or cared that he had buried himself away in this forsaken corner of the earth, and in the second place, what did letters mean to him, who with all the contempt that they deserved had severed his relations with his fellow beings—especially the feminine ones—forever. He must remember not to ask Peterson again if there were any letters. Peterson might imagine that he was so weak as to hope that Miss Abbot had repented of her cruel and barbarous treatment, and under no circumstances was Peterson to imagine anything of the sort. Why, on the contrary, if Mary, that is to say, Miss Abbot—were to come to him and beg his pardon on her knees, and tell him that she knew she was a wicked coquette, and unworthy of his slightest notice, he would say to her,
“No, Mary—or, No, Madam, what you ask now is no longer in my power to give. My forgiveness is yours—gladly, but neither you nor I can revive—or, but never again, I fear, can that sweet emotion—” or anyhow, something to the effect that while he forgave her gladly—he wouldn’t forgive her at all. But magnanimously. He would be very magnanimous. Nothing could be more crushing than a lofty and unapproachable kindness. He would let her know the extent of the damage she had wrought, but she should also be made to feel that he was capable of supporting it without bitterness—to the end.
So engrossed was he in the composition of that final speech of forgiveness and farewell—which he had composed at least a dozen times already—that he absent-mindedly tucked away every morsel of Peterson’s generously provided breakfast, comprising fruit and coffee, poached eggs, bacon, marmalade, and half a dozen of the most exquisite rolls he had ever eaten.
“Those rolls, Peterson—they are rather nice,” he remarked, with a touch of enthusiasm that he quickly suppressed.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Tim. I’m glad to have found something as pleases you, sir,” said Peterson, with a perfectly grave face.
“Yes. My appetite hasn’t been very good lately.”
“No, Mr. Tim,” agreed Peterson, tactfully.
After a short silence, Mr. Sheridan asked indifferently,