heavy, half-closed curtains; the blinds severely drawn; the
great room with its splendid furniture, its sober coloring,
its scent of damp London winter; above all, Allsopp, silent,
respectful, and respectable--were things to dread.

A full minute passed while he still feigned sleep. He heard
Allsopp stir discreetly, then the inevitable information broke
the silence:

"Nine o'clock, sir!"

He opened his eyes, murmured something, and closed them again.

The man moved to the window, quietly pulled back the curtains
and half drew the blind.

"Better night, sir, I hope?" he ventured, softly.

Chilcote had drawn the bedclothes over his face to screen
himself from the daylight, murky though it was.

"Yes," he responded. "Those beastly nightmares didn't trouble
me, for once." He shivered a little as at some recollection.
"But don't talk--don't remind me of them. I hate a man who
has no originality." He spoke sharply. At times he showed an
almost childish irritation over trivial things.

Allsopp took the remark in silence. Crossing the wide room,
he began to lay out his master's clothes. The action affected
Chilcote to fresh annoyance.