When Allsopp returned he was sitting up, a cigarette between his lips, the teacup standing empty on the salver.  The nervous irritability had gone from his manner.  He no longer moved jerkily, his eyes looked brighter, his pale skin more healthy.

“Ah, Allsopp,” he said, “there are some moments in life, after all.  It isn’t all blank wall.”

“I ordered breakfast in the small morning-room, sir,” said Allsopp, without a change of expression.

Chilcote breakfasted at ten.  His appetite, always fickle, was particularly uncertain in the early hours.  He helped himself to some fish, but sent away his plate untouched; then, having drunk two cups of tea, he pushed back his chair, lighted a fresh cigarette, and shook out the morning’s newspaper.

Twice he shook it out and twice turned it, but the reluctance to fix his mind upon it made him dally.

The effect of the morphia tabloids was still apparent in the greater steadiness of his hand and eye, the regained quiet of his susceptibilities, but the respite was temporary and lethargic.  The early days—­the days of six years ago, when these tabloids meant an even sweep of thought, lucidity of brain, a balance of judgment in thought and effort—­were days of the past.  As he had said of Lexington and his vice, the slave had become master.

As he folded the paper in a last attempt at interest, the door opened and his secretary came a step or two into the room.

“Good-morning, sir!” he said.  “Forgive me for being so untimely.”

He was a fresh-mannered, bright-eyed boy of twenty-three.  His breezy alertness, his deference, as to a man who had attained what he aspired to, amused and depressed Chilcote by turns.

“Good-morning, Blessington.  What is it now?” He sighed through habit, and, putting up his hand, warded off a ray of sun that had forced itself through the misty atmosphere as if by mistake.

The boy smiled.  “It’s that business of the Wark timber contract, sir,” he said.  “You promised you’d look into it to-day; you know you’ve shelved it for a week already, and Craig, Burnage are rather clamoring for an answer.”  He moved forward and laid the papers he was carrying on the table beside Chilcote.  “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” he added.  “I hope your nerves aren’t worrying you to-day?”

Chilcote was toying with the papers.  At the word nerves he glanced up suspiciously.  But Blessington’s ingenuous face satisfied him.

“No,” he said.  “I settled my nerves last night with—­with a bromide.  I knew that fog would upset me unless I took precautions.”

“I’m glad of that, sir—­though I’d avoid bromides.  Bad habit to set up.  But this Wark business—­I’d like to get it under way, if you have no objection.”

Chilcote passed his fingers over the papers.  “Were you out in that fog last night, Blessington?”

“No, sir.  I supped with some people at the Savoy, and we just missed it.  It was very partial, I believe.”