In the playhouses of France, a hammering on the stage alone heralds the
rising of the curtain to disclose illusory realms of romance. Precisely
so with Mr. Staff, upon the door of whose lodging, at nine o'clock the
next morning, a knocking announced the first overt move against his
peace of mind.
At that time, Staff, all unconscious of his honourable peril, was
standing in the middle of the floor of the inner room (his lodgings
comprised two) and likewise in the approximate geographical centre of a
chaotic assemblage of assorted wearing apparel and other personal
impedimenta.
He was wondering, confusedly, how in thunderation he was to manage to
cram all that confounded truck into the limited amount of trunk space at
his command. He was also wondering, resentfully in the names of a dozen
familiar spirits, where he had put his pipe: it's simply maddening, the
way a fellow's pipe will persist in getting lost at such critical times
as when he's packing up to catch a train with not a minute to spare....
In short, so preoccupied was Staff that the knocking had to be repeated
before he became objectively alive to it.