His eyebrows were drawn down, as if the process of storing up
eyesight for his old age was somewhat laborious. At times he turned
and glanced over his shoulder impatiently at the lamp.
The room was very still in its solid old-fashioned luxury. Although
it was June a small wood fire burned in the grate, and the hiss of a
piece of damp bark was the only sound within the four walls. From
without, through the thick curtains, came at intervals the rumble of
distant wheels. But it was just between times, and the fashionable
world was at its dinner. Sir John had finished his, not because he
dined earlier than the rest of the world--he could not have done
that--but because a man dining by himself, with a butler and a
footman to wait upon him, does not take very long over his meals.
He was in full evening dress, of course, built up by his tailor,
bewigged, perfumed, and cunningly aided by toilet-table deceptions.
At times his weary old eyes wandered from the printed page to the
smouldering fire, where a whole volume seemed to be written--it took
so long to read. Then he would pull himself together, glance at the
lamp, readjust the eyeglasses, and plunge resolutely into the book.
He did not always read scientific books. He had a taste for travel
and adventure--the Arctic regions, Asia, Siberia, and Africa--but
Africa was all locked away in a lower drawer of the writing-table.
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