..."
But he couldn't attend. He looked up at the little clock and saw that it
was nearly dinner-time. Bobby ought to be here.
He stood up and listened. The house was profoundly silent. It was often
silent--but to-night it was as though everything in the house--the
furniture, the pictures--were listening--as though The Roundabout itself
listened.
He went into the hall--stood for a moment under the stairs--and then called
"Clare--Clare." He waited and then again "Clare, Clare--I say, it's late.
Come along--"
There was no answer.
Then, crossing the hall, he opened the door of the little drawing-room and
looked in. It was black and empty--here, too, he could smell the burning
leaves.
He switched on the light and instantly, perched against the Velasquez
Infanta, saw the letter, white and still before the pink and grey of the
picture. At the sight of the letter the room that had been empty and cold
was suddenly burning hot and filled with a thousand voices. "Take it--take
it--why don't you take it? It's been waiting there for you a long time and
we've all been wondering when you were coming in for it. It's waiting there
for you. Take it--take it--take it!"
At the sight of it too, the floor of the room seemed instantly to pitch,
slanting downwards, like the deck of a sinking ship. He caught on to the
back of a chair in order that he might not slip with it.
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