The master directed a brief glance at the second story whence floated
the dull sound of the carpet-beater. He thrust the key rapidly into
the keyhole for a desire stirred in him to slip past the porter's
lodge unobserved.

"I seem almost to be--ashamed!" he murmured with a smile of
self-derision as a similar impulse overcame him in front of the
house door.

But John, his man--a dignified person of fifty--had observed his
approach and stood in the opening door. The servant's mutton-chop
whiskers and admirably silvered front-lock contrasted with a repressed
reproach that hovered between his brows. He bowed deeply.

"I was delayed," said Herr von Niebeldingk, in order to say something
and was vexed because this sentence sounded almost like an excuse.

"Do you desire to go to bed, captain, or would you prefer a bath?"

"A bath," the master responded. "I have slept elsewhere."

That sounded almost like another excuse.

"I'm obviously out of practice," he reflected as he entered the
breakfast-room where the silver samovar steamed among the dishes of
old Sevres.

He stepped in front of the mirror and regarded himself--not with the
forbearance of a friend but the keen scrutiny of a critic.