Wogan raised his candle and surveyed the dingy walls.
"You have not spent much of your new paint on your guest-room, my friend." "Sir, you have not marked the door," said his host, reproachfully.
"True," said Wogan, with a yawn; "the door is admirably white." "The frame of the door does not suffer in a comparison." The landlord raised and lowered his candle that Wogan might see.
"I do not wish to be unjust to the frame of the door," said Wogan, and he drew off his boots.

The landlord bade his guest good-night and descended the stairs.
Wogan, being a campaigner, was methodical even though lost in reflection.

He was reflecting now why in the world he should lately have become sensible of loneliness; but at the same time he put the Prince's letter beneath his pillow and a sheathed hunting-knife beside the letter.

He had always been lonely, and the fact had never troubled him; he placed a chair on the left of the bed and his candle on the chair.
Besides, he was not really lonely, having a host of friends whom he had merely to seek out; he took the charges from his pistol lest they should be damp, and renewed them and placed the pistols by the candle.

He had even begun to pity himself for his loneliness, and pity of that sort, he recognised, was a discreditable quality; the matter was altogether very disquieting.