An hour later, at the scene of his encounter with Mr. Ventnor, where the table was already laid for dinner, old Heythorp stood and gazed.  The curtains had been drawn back, the window thrown open to air the room, and he could see out there the shapes of the dark trees and a sky grape-coloured, in the mild, moist night.  It smelt good.  A sensuous feeling stirred in him, warm from his bath, clothed from head to foot in fresh garments.  Deuce of a time since he had dined in full fig!  He would have liked a woman dining opposite—­but not the holy woman; no, by George!—­would have liked to see light falling on a woman’s shoulders once again, and a pair of bright eyes!  He crossed, snail-like, towards the fire.  There that bullying fellow had stood with his back to it—­confound his impudence!—­as if the place belonged to him.  And suddenly he had a vision of his three secretaries’ faces—­especially young Farney’s as they would look, when the pack got him by the throat and pulled him down.  His co-directors, too!  Old Heythorp!  How are the mighty fallen!  And that hound jubilant!

His valet passed across the room to shut the window and draw the curtains.  This chap too!  The day he could no longer pay his wages, and had lost the power to say “Shan’t want your services any more”—­when he could no longer even pay his doctor for doing his best to kill him off!  Power, interest, independence, all—­gone!  To be dressed and undressed, given pap, like a baby in arms, served as they chose to serve him, and wished out of the way—­broken, dishonoured!

By money alone an old man had his being!  Meat, drink, movement, breath!  When all his money was gone the holy woman would let him know it fast enough.  They would all let him know it; or if they didn’t, it would be out of pity!  He had never been pitied yet—­thank God!  And he said: 

“Get me up a bottle of Perrier Jouet.  What’s the menu?”

“Germane soup, sir; filly de sole; sweetbread; cutlet soubees, rum souffly.”

“Tell her to give me a hors d’oeuvre, and put on a savoury.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the man had gone, he thought:  ’I should have liked an oyster—­too late now!’ and going over to his bureau, he fumblingly pulled out the top drawer.  There was little in it—­Just a few papers, business papers on his Companies, and a schedule of his debts; not even a copy of his will—­he had not made one, nothing to leave!  Letters he had never kept.  Half a dozen bills, a few receipts, and the little pink note with the blue forget-me-not.  That was the lot!  An old tree gives up bearing leaves, and its roots dry up, before it comes down in a wind; an old man’s world slowly falls away from him till he stands alone in the night.  Looking at the pink note, he thought:  ’Suppose I’d married Alice—­a man never had a better mistress!’ He fumbled the drawer to; but still he strayed feebly about the room, with a curious shrinking