A month ago he would not have thought so lightly of the matter.
One evening, not long after their stormy interview, he turned up at Stanistreet's rooms in Chelsea, much as he had turned up at Ridgmount Gardens after his year's absence.
Stanistreet was lying back in a low chair, smoking and thinking.

The change in Louis's appearance was still more striking than when they had last met.

His clothes hung loosely, on him; his whole figure had a drooping, disjointed look.

But the restless light had gone from his eyes; the muscles of his lean face were set in a curious repose, as if the man's nature were appeased, as if his will had somehow resisted the physical collapse.

He rose reluctantly as Tyson came in, and stood, manifestly ill at ease, while Tyson, ignoring the interrogation of his air, took possession of a seat which was not offered to him.
"Look here, Stanistreet," said he, "I can't stand this any longer.