You know it
all, Victor. You were brought up upon it, but you haven't profited
by it--not a scrap. Well, I'm going!"
He leant forward, picked up his shoes, and went into his own room.
It was about twelve when he came in that night and found me just
finishing off a chapter. The fire had gone out from neglect; the
window stood open and the lace curtains waved in the damp night
wind. Howard stalked across the room and banged the glass doors
shut, and told me it was beastly cold in here. I was just fully
absorbed in the closing passages of my scene, and felt a nervous
irritation at being interrupted.
"There's a fire-lighter behind the scuttle, throw it into the grate
and you'll soon have a blaze," I said, without looking up.
Howard drew off his lavender gloves and flung them down on the
table. One fell on the last sheet I had written.
"Confound you! do be careful!" I muttered, picking it up, and
noticing the great blur it left on the page. "The sheets are wet."
"It doesn't matter, they're not a new pair!" answered Howard,
coolly, going down on his knees to light up the fire. He
accomplished this in a few minutes, and then settled down in the
long chair with a cigar. I wrote on feverishly, expecting to be
addressed and interrupted every moment. It was a great bore his
coming in just now, disturbing me. I had a difficult thing to
express, and I was just pursuing the tail end of an idea I could not
quite grasp.
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