For the night threatened to be a bad one for him.

A heavy fragrance from his neighbour's wine-glass at dinner had stirred up what had for a time lain dormant; and, by accident, something--some sweetmeat he had tasted--was saturated in brandy.
Now, his restlessness at the prospect of a blank night had quickened to uneasiness, with a hint of fever tinting his skin, but, as yet, the dull ache in his body was scarcely more than a premonition.
He had his own devices for tiding him over such periods--reading, tobacco, and the long, blind, dogged tramps he took in town.

But here, to-night, in the rain, one stood every chance of walking off the cliffs; and he was sick of reading himself sightless over the sort of books sent wholesale to Shotover; and he was already too ill at ease, physically, to make smoking endurable.
Were it not for a half-defiant, half-sullen dread of the coming night, he might have put it from his mind in spite of the slowly increasing nervous tension and the steady dull consciousness of desire.

He drew another Sirdar from his case and sat staring at the rain-smeared night, twisting the frail fragrant cigarette to bits between his fingers.
After a while he began to walk monotonously to and fro the length of the corridor, like a man timing his steps to the heavy ache of body or mind.

Once he went as far as his own door, entered, and stepping to the wash-basin, let the icy water run over hands and wrists.