He
wanted to whelm his senses in their perfume, and closed his eyes. But
instead of the domestic vision he expected, the face of the little Welsh
soldier, hare-eyed, shadowy, pinched and dark and pitiful, started up
with such disturbing vividness that he opened his eyes again at once.
Curse! The fellow almost haunted one! Where would he be now poor little
devil!--lying in his cell, thinking--thinking of his wife! Feeling
suddenly morbid, Mr. Bosengate arrested the swing and stood up.
Absurd!--all his well-being and mood of warm anticipation had deserted
him! 'A d---d world!' he thought. 'Such a lot of misery! Why should I
have to sit in judgment on that poor beggar, and condemn him?' He
moved up on to the terrace and walked briskly, to rid himself of this
disturbance before going in. 'That commercial traveller chap,' he
thought, 'the rest of those fellows--they see nothing!' And, abruptly
turning up the three stone steps, he entered the conservatory, locked
it, passed into the billiard room, and drank his barley water. One of
the pictures was hanging crooked; he went up to put it straight. Still
life. Grapes and apples, and--lobsters! They struck him as odd for the
first time.
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