One of them also was slightly--very slightly--lame.
He wandered restlessly round the room again, stopping every now and then with his hands in his pockets, to look at the books on the shelves.
Generally, he did not take in what he was looking at, but in a moment less absent-minded than others, he happened to notice the name of a stately octavo volume just opposite his eyes-- "Davison, on Prophecy." "Damn Davison!"-- he said to himself, with sudden temper.

The outburst seemed to clear his mind.

He went to the bell and rang it.

A thin woman in a black dress appeared, a woman with a depressed and deprecating expression which was often annoying to Lord Buntingford.

It represented somehow an appeal to the sentiment of the spectator for which there was really no sufficient ground.