For not only was there to be no point-shooting for him, but he had risen from the card-table heavily hit; and besides, for the first time his apples and port had disagreed with him.
As he had not risen until mid-day he was not sleepy.

Books were an aversion equalled only by distaste for his own company.

Irritated, bored, he had perforce sulkily entered the elevator and passed to his room, where there was nothing on earth for him to do except to thumb over last week's sporting periodicals and smoke himself stupid.
But it required more than that to ensnare the goddess of slumber.
He walked about the room, haunted of slow thoughts; he stood at the rain-smeared pane, fat fingers resting on the glass.

The richly flavoured cigar grew distasteful; and if he could not smoke, what, in pity's name, was he to do?
Involuntarily his distended eyes wandered to his wife's locked and bolted door; then he thought of Beverly Plank, and his own failure to fasten himself upon that anxiously over-cordial individual with his houses and his villas and his yachts and his investments! He stepped to the switch and extinguished the lights in his room.

Under the door, along the sill, a glimmer came from his wife's bed-chamber.
He listened; the maid was still there; so he sat down in the darkness to wait; and by-and-by he heard the outer bedroom door close, and the subdued rustle of the departing maid.
Then, turning on his lights, he moved ponderously and jauntily to his wife's door and knocked discreetly.
Leila Mortimer came to the door and opened it; her hair was coiled for the night, her pretty figure outlined under a cascade of clinging lace.
"What is the matter ?" she asked quietly.
"Are you point-shooting to-morrow ?" "I wanted to chat with you." "I'm sorry.