HE moved a minute about the hall; then he dropped upon a sofa with a sense of exhaustion¹ and a sudden need of rest; he stretched himself, closing his eyes, glad to be alone, glad above all to make sure that he could lie still. He wished to show himself he was not nervous; he took up a position with the purpose not to budge² till Mrs. Beever should come back. His house was in an odd con³ dition, with luncheon⁴ pompously⁵ served and no one able to go to it. Poor Julia was in a predicament, poor Rose in another, and poor Mr. Vidal, fasting in the garden, in a greater one than either. Tony sighed as he thought of this dispersal, but he stiffened⁶ himself resolutely⁷ on his couch. He wouldn’t go in alone, and he couldn’t even enjoy Mrs. Beever. It next occurred to him that he could still less enjoy her little friend, the child he had promised to turn away; on which he gave a sigh that represented partly privation and partly resig nation partly also a depressed⁹ perception of the fact that he had never in all his own healthy life been less eager for a meal. Meanwhile, however, the attempt to stop pacing the floor was a success: he felt as if in closing his eyes he destroyed the vision that had scared him. He was cooler, he was easier, and he liked the smell of flowers in the dusk. What was droll¹⁰, when he gave himself up to it, was the sharp sense of lassitude; it had dropped on him out of the blue and it showed him how a sudden alarm such as, after all, he had had could drain a fellow in an hour of half his vitality¹¹. He wondered whether, if he might be undisturbed a little, the result of this surrender wouldn’t be to make him

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