Perhaps I had even damaged my work by this isolation.

To understand life one must live--and I had only brooded.

But, by Jove, I would try to live now.
Callan had retired for his accustomed siesta and I was smoking pipe after pipe over a confoundedly bad French novel that I had found in the book-shelves.

I must have been dozing.

A voice from behind my back announced: "Miss Etchingham Granger!" and added--"Mr.Callan will be down directly." I laid down my pipe, wondered whether I ought to have been smoking when Cal expected visitors, and rose to my feet.
"You!" I said, sharply.