Through the windows of the dining-room he saw Mr.Corkle digging up great holes in the geranium beds.

He went out and abused him and finally let him come back into the house and took him upstairs with him.
Then at last he settled down to his novel, in the very comfortable leather chair, before a little fire, for the last half of August is cold in San Francisco.

The room was warm and snug, the fresh bread and apples were delicious, the good tobacco in his pipe purred like a sleeping kitten, and his novel was interesting and well written.

He felt calm and soothed and perfectly content, and took in the pleasure of the occasion with the lazy complacency of a drowsing cat.
Vandover was self-indulgent--he loved these sensuous pleasures, he loved to eat good things, he loved to be warm, he loved to sleep.

He hated to be bored and worried--he liked to have a good time.
At about half-past four o'clock he came to a good stopping-place in his book; the two men had got to quarrelling, and his interest flagged a little.