Then I telegraphed to London for more, and was miserable until it arrived.

How I tore the lid off the canister! That is a tobacco to live for.

But I am better without it.
Occasionally I feel a little depressed after dinner still, without being able to say why, and if my wife has left me, I wander about the room restlessly, like one who misses something.

Usually, however, she takes me with her to the drawing-room, and reads aloud her delightfully long home-letters or plays soft music to me.

If the music be sweet and sad it takes me away to a stair in an inn, which I climb gayly, and shake open a heavy door on the top floor, and turn up the gas.