CHAPTER IV.
Bastian Cautley, M.D.
It was half-past five and Dr.Bastian Cautley had put on his house jacket, loosened his waistcoat, settled down by his library fire with a pipe and a book, and was thanking Heaven that for once he had an hour to himself between his afternoon round and his time for consultation.

He had been working hard ever since nine o'clock in the morning; but now nobody could have looked more superlatively lazy than Bastian Cautley as he stretched himself on two armchairs in an attitude of reckless ease.

His very intellect (the most unrestful part of him) was at rest; all his weary being merged in a confused voluptuous sensation, a beatific state in which smoking became a higher kind of thinking, and thought betrayed an increasing tendency to end in smoke.

The room was double-walled with book-shelves, and but for the far away underground humming of a happy maidservant the house was soundless.

He rejoiced to think that there was not a soul in it above stairs to disturb his deep tranquility.