Isabel’s absence made a great blank in the evening; but as my three
friends had not met for a considerable time, and I had not seen them for
more than a year, we had a great deal to say to each other, and there was
no lack of conversation. Mrs. de Winton remained with us till eleven, when
she withdrew, leaving us to discuss punch and politics by ourselves. It
was past midnight when we separated. I went into my dressing‐room. The
candles were lighted, but, contrary to his custom, Stanton, my man, was
not there. I rang the bell; but while my hand was still on the rope, the
sound of his voice reached me through the door—not the outer door, but the
door leading into my wife’s room. He was speaking in a loud, argumentative
tone, and was stuttering violently, which he always did when excited. I
flung open the door, and beheld him standing in the middle of the room
with Susette, my wife’s maid, and Mrs. de Winton, who was wrapped in a
dressing‐gown and her feet bare, as if she had been called suddenly out of
bed, and had rushed in in terrified haste.
“Clide!”
“Monsieur!”
“Sir ...” exclaimed the three in one voice when they saw me.
“Good God! what is the matter? Isabel!”