He was conscious as he took his shirt off that his windows were open and a strange scent of burning leaves was with him in the room. It was quite strong, pungent--very pleasant, that sense of burning. Burning leaves in the orchard.... But it was rather cold. Then he came back to his looking-glass and, standing there, naked save for his dress trousers, he saw that he was looking in much better health than he had looked for weeks. The colour had returned to his face, his eyes were brighter and more alert--the lines had gone. He was strong and vigorous as he stood there, his body shining under the glow. He opened and shut his hands feeling the strength, force, in his fingers. Thick-set, sturdy, with his shoulders back again now, straight, not bent as they had been. “Oh, I'm all right--I'm all right you know. I'll write some stuff one day...” and even behind that his thought was--“that young Galleon, by jove, I could jolly well break him if I wanted to--just snap him up.” And then the odour of the burnt leaves filled his nostrils again; when he had dressed he turned out the light, opened the windows more widely, and stood for a moment there smelling the smoke, feeling the air on his forehead, seeing the dark fluttering shadows of the trees, the silver moon, the dim red haze of the London sky.... II He went down to his study. Clare must be in now. Bobby would be here in a few minutes. He took up the _Times_ but his mind wandered. “Mr. Penning Bruce was at his best last night in the new musical Comedy produced at the Apollo Theatre--the humour of his performance as Lieutenant Pottle, a humour never exaggerated nor strained....” But he couldn't attend. He looked up at the little clock and saw that it was nearly dinner-time. Bobby ought to be here. He stood up and listened. The house was profoundly silent. It was often silent--but to-night it was as though everything in the house--the furniture, the pictures--were listening--as though The Roundabout itself listened. He went into the hall--stood for a moment under the stairs--and then called “Clare--Clare.” He waited and then again “Clare, Clare--I say, it's late. Come along--” There was no answer. Then, crossing the hall, he opened the door of the little drawing-room and looked in. It was black and empty--here, too, he could smell the burning leaves. He switched on the light and instantly, perched against the Velasquez Infanta, saw the letter, white and still before the pink and grey of the picture. At the sight of the letter the room that had been empty and cold was suddenly burning hot and filled with a thousand voices. “Take it--take it--why don't you take it? It's been waiting there for you a long time and we've all been wondering when you were coming in for it. It's waiting there for you. Take it--take it--take it!”