Wheels? Had that hell-hound of an old doctor sneaked off? He started
up. There at the door was Markey, holding in his hand some cards. Winton
scanned them.
"Lady Summerhay; Mr. Bryan Summerhay. I said, 'Not at home,' sir."
Winton nodded.
"Well?"
"Nothing at present. You have had no lunch, sir."
"What time is it?"
"Four o'clock."
"Bring in my fur coat and the port, and make the fire up. I want any
news there is."
Markey nodded.
Odd to sit in a fur coat before a fire, and the day not cold! They said
you lived on after death. He had never been able to feel that SHE was
living on. SHE lived in Gyp. And now if Gyp--! Death--your own--no great
matter! But--for her! The wind was dropping with the darkness. He got up
and drew the curtains.
It was seven o'clock when the doctor came down into the hall, and stood
rubbing his freshly washed hands before opening the study door. Winton
was still sitting before the fire, motionless, shrunk into his fur coat.
He raised himself a little and looked round dully.
The doctor's face puckered, his eyelids drooped half-way across his
bulging eyes; it was his way of smiling. "Nicely," he said; "nicely--a
girl. No complications."
Winton's whole body seemed to swell, his lips opened, he raised his
hand. Then, the habit of a lifetime catching him by the throat, he
stayed motionless. At last he got up and said:
"Glass of port, doctor?"
The doctor spying at him above the glass thought: 'This is "the
fifty-two.
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