John at least would help to make conversation, and the conversation on the previous evening had been intolerably wearisome.

Almost unconsciously, since the chief interest and hope of his daily life had been removed the squire began to long for a change; he had been a wanderer by profession during thirty years of his life and he was perhaps not yet old enough to settle into that absolute indifference to novelty which seems to characterise retired sailors.
But as he brushed his smooth hair and combed his beard that morning, neither change nor excitement were very far from him.

He looked over his dressing-glass at the leafless oaks of the park, at the grey sky and the driving rain and he wished something would happen.

He wished somebody might die and leave a great library to be sold, that he might indulge his favourite passion; he wished he had somebody stopping in the Hall--he almost decided to send and ask the vicar to come to lunch and have a day among the books.

As he entered the breakfast-room at precisely half-past eight o'clock, according to his wont, the butler informed him that Mr.
Gall, the village constable, was below and wanted to see him after breakfast.