He lolled there discreetly, making civil responses--and gradually he realised that Flossie Coburg's son was not wholly to be blamed for the tedium; he recognised that there was a dulness of his own spirit. While he countenanced the garrulity of a fool, his thoughts were with scenes of twenty years before, and sadly the man strove to revive in his heart the idolatry and illusions of the boy. Oh, for the enchantment of the summer when he had called her "Mrs. Adaile!" ... If he could only keep remembering it was the same woman! But never had she seemed so different to him as in these minutes--never had he desired so little as now when she had promised all. The ground floor of the hotel was partially dark when he crossed it; a purposeless waiter hovered in obscurity. Upstairs, along the passage, the tan and black rows of boots, shapely on boot-trees, indicated that most of the visitors had retired. A drowsy lady's-maid put forth an expectant face, and withdrew it wearily. Conrad felt about the wall for the electric button, which seemed always in a different spot, and found it. Then he closed his door as completely as was possible without turning the knob. As he put down his watch he saw that it was late, but he knew that it was not yet late enough, and his movements were leisurely. He wanted a cigarette--the more because he had deprived himself of one outside by saying that he had no match, but he was reluctant to give the odour of tobacco to the room. A superfluous grace, perhaps, now that most women smoked? Still he was reluctant. He threw down his cigarette-case, too, and the rest of the things that had been in his pockets.... He looked at himself ruminatingly in the mirror, and brushed his moustache. One of the lights hung above the pillow--it was convenient to read by. Presently it occurred to him that nearly two acts of "Le Marquis de Priola" remained to divert him. He put forth his arm for it, and, stretching, reached it. He turned the leaves.... _Une dame viendra de deux à trois_. Ah yes, this was as far as he had read. The effort to give his attention to the play grew gradually less. Mournfulness faded, and in the next scene his interest was alert. Once he laughed. His thoughts were no longer with the boy who had lain wakeful through a night just to hear her footstep in the hall. The wind was rising, and intermittently it tricked and irritated him. The blustering wind, and the chiming of a clock made the only sounds. Again the clock rang out. This time he counted the strokes with annoyance. He yawned. His interest was wandering from the play now. It began to seem to him that Priola talked too much. What was keeping her--had she repented her promise? He tossed the book aside, and lay watching the door.