certainly have been convened.

So Valentine believed himself lonely in his feeling. One night he
returned from the theatre and a succeeding supper party at half-past
twelve, let himself into the flat with a latchkey, threw off his coat
and stood before the fire. His usually smooth, white forehead was
puckered in a frown. He contemplated the inevitable hours of bed
with dissatisfaction. When a man has allowed a vice to obtain dominion
over him there are moments when an enforced abstinence from it, even
of only a few hours, seems intolerably irksome. So Valentine felt now.
It seemed to him that he must sit again; that he could not go to bed,
could not rest and sleep, until he gratified his desire. Yet what was he
to do? He thought at first of starting out, late as the hour was, to
Julian's rooms. But that would be ridiculous, more especially after
their mutual resolution. Julian might refuse, would probably, in any
event, wish to refuse, the request which he came to make. Valentine
strove sincerely to dismiss the desire from his mind, but his effort
was entirely vain. Presently he went into his bedroom with the intention
of forcing himself to go, as usual, to bed. He began to undress slowly,
and had taken off his coat and waistcoat when he felt that he must
resume them; that he must remain, unnecessarily, up. He allowed the
mental prompting to govern him, and hardly had he once more fully attired
himself when the electric bell in the passage rang twice. Valentine went
to the door, opened it, and descended the flight of stone steps to the
main door of the house, which was locked at night. Julian was standing
outside on the pavement.

"You are still up, then," he exclaimed. "That's good. May I come in?"

"Yes, of course. Where have you been to-night?"