She had promised at least to stay her month. These were working
hours. What was she doing? She could hardly be packing already!
He tried to give his attention to the notes he had been working at
the day before. Presently he wanted a reference--a line from the
_Philoctetes_. 'The Lemnian fire'--where on earth was the passage?
He lifted his head instinctively. If only she had been there--it was
_monstrous_ that she wasn't there!--he would just have thrown the
question across the room, and got an answer. Her verbal memory was
astonishing--much better than his.
He must, of course, get up and look out the reference for himself.
And the same with others. In an hour's time he had accomplished
scarcely anything, and a settled gloom descended upon him. That was
the worst of accustoming yourself to crutches and helps. When they
were unscrupulously and unjustly taken away, a man was worse off
than if he had never had them.
The evening post came in. The Squire looked through it with disgust.
He perceived that several letters were answers to some he had
allowed his secretary to draft and send in his name--generally in
reply to exasperated correspondents who had been kept waiting for
months, and trampled on to boot.
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