"George is staying here, but he has gone over to Glenaller to a big
shoot. I didn't care much about it, so I stayed at home. He will be
back to-morrow."
Lewis's face in the firelight seemed cheerful and wholesome enough, but
his words belied it. Wratislaw wondered why this man, who had been wont
to travel to the ends of the earth for good shooting, should deny
himself the famous Glenaller coverts.
At dinner the lamplight showed him more clearly, and the worried look in
his eyes could not be hidden. He was listless, too, his kindly,
boisterous manner seemed to have forsaken him, and he had acquired a
great habit of abstracted silence. He asked about recent events in the
House, commenting shrewdly enough, but without interest. When Wratislaw
in turn questioned him on his doings, he had none of the ready
enthusiasm which had been used to accompany his talk on sport. He gave
bare figures and was silent.
Afterwards in his own sanctum, with drawn curtains and a leaping fire,
he became more cheerful. It was hard to be moody in that pleasant room,
with the light glancing from silver and vellum and dark oak, and a
thousand memories about it of the clean, outdoor life. Wratislaw
stretched his legs to the blaze and watched the coils of blue smoke
mounting from his pipe with a feeling of keen pleasure. His errand was
out of the focus of his thoughts.
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