Egremont, talking with him, was half disposed to envy Jack Tyrrell.

What a simple thing life was with limitless cash, a perfect digestion, and good-humour in the place of brains! His room seemed very cold and lonely when he got back to it shortly before midnight.

The fire had been let out; the books round the walls had a musty appearance; there was stale tobacco in the air.

He paced the floor, thinking of Annabel, wondering whether she would soon be in London, longing to see her.

And before he went to bed, he wrote a letter to Mr.Newthorpe, expressing the anxiety with which he had heard of his illness.