It was past two when he came up to bed. No longer at all sleepy, I was
waiting for him in the sole armchair that our room possessed; Severn's
_Disraeli_ was open on my knee, but it had taken me over an hour to read
five of its most fascinating pages.
He said nothing at first, beyond apologizing for his lateness. I thought
he looked worried and unsettled; he went to the window, lit a cigarette,
and stood there for a moment with his back towards me.
"Sleepy?" he said at last.
"Not particularly," I replied.
"Neither am I."
Was it an invitation to talk? I wondered, but I knew that if it were he
would soon repeat it more definitely.