He could picture her childlike grown-up face as it would look when he stepped into the room where they met.
Some one was ill in Berkeley Square, evidently very ill.

Straw was laid thick all along one side of it, depressing damp, fresh straw, over which the carriage rolled with a dull drag of the wheels.
It lay before the door of his own house, he observed, as he stepped out.
It was very thickly scattered.

The door swung open as the carriage stopped.

Crossing the threshold, he glanced at the face of the footman nearest to him.

The man looked like a mute at a funeral, and the expression was so little in accord with his mood that he stopped with a feeling of irritation.