Outside a footman was waiting for a
signal to bring in the after-dinner coffee.
Across his luxurious table, through the waving clusters of
sweet-smelling flowers to the dark mahogany panelled wall beyond, the
eyes of Phineas Duge seemed to be seeking that night something which
they failed to find. The last few weeks seemed in a way to have aged the
man. His lips had come closer together, there were faint lines on his
forehead and underneath his eyes. The butler from behind his chair
looked down upon his master's carefully parted and picturesque hair,
wondering why he sat so still, wondering what he saw that he looked so
steadily at that one particular spot in the panelled wall, and lingered
so unusually long over the last few drops of his wine. Phineas Duge
himself wondered still more what had come to him. For many years men and
women had come and gone, leaving him indifferent as to their coming and
going, their pains and their joys; and to-night, though there were many
matters with which his mind might well have been occupied, he found
himself in the curious position of indulging in vague and almost
regretful memories. The place at the other end of his table was empty,
as it had been for many nights; for during the period of his titanic
struggle with those men against whom he had declared war, he had shunned
all society, and lived a life of stern and absolute seclusion.
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