He could hardly help smiling. Field had not moved an inch. He watched
him a moment or two and then returned to his books. The night was full
of the singing voices of the wind and rain. There was no sound of
traffic; no hansoms clattered over the cobbles, and it was still too
early for the milk carts. He worked on steadily and conscientiously,
only stopping now and again to change a book, or to sip some of the
poisonous stuff that kept him awake and made his brain so active, and on
these occasions Field's breathing was always distinctly audible in the
room. Outside, the storm continued to howl, but inside the house all was
stillness. The shade of the reading lamp threw all the light upon the
littered table, leaving the other end of the room in comparative
darkness. The bedroom door was exactly opposite him where he sat. There
was nothing to disturb the worker, nothing but an occasional rush of
wind against the windows, and a slight pain in his arm.
This pain, however, which he was unable to account for, grew once or
twice very acute. It bothered him; and he tried to remember how, and
when, he could have bruised himself so severely, but without success.
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