He did not care for the servants to meddle with his books, he told
himself. He did not tell anybody that he did not care to let the
servants see him reading his books of travel in Africa.
There was nothing dismal or lonely about this old man sitting in
evening dress in a high-backed chair, stiffly reading a scientific
book of the modern, cheap science tenor--not written for scientists,
but to step in when the brain is weary of novels and afraid of
communing with itself. Oh, no! A gentleman need never be dull. He
has his necessary occupations. If he is a man of intellect he need
never be idle. It is an occupation to keep up with the times.
Sometimes after dinner, while drinking his perfectly made black
coffee, Sir John would idly turn over the invitation cards on the
mantelpiece--the carriage was always in readiness--but of late the
invitations had not proved very tempting. There was no doubt that
society was not what it used to be. The summer was not what it used
to be, either. The evenings were so confoundedly cold. So he often
stayed at home and read a book.
He paused in the midst of a scientific definition and looked up with
listening eyes. He had got into the way of listening to the passing
wheels. Lady Cantourne sometimes called for him on her way to a
festivity, but it was not that.
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