Penrod lingered a few moments, but found even his attention to the conversation ill received, while his attempts to take part in it met outright rebuff.

His feelings were hurt; he passed broodingly to the front part of the house, and flung himself wearily into an armchair in the library.

With glazed eyes he stared at shelves of books that meant to him just what the wallpaper meant, and he sighed from the abyss.

His legs tossed and his arms flopped; he got up, scratched himself exhaustively, and shuffled to a window.

Ten desolate minutes he stood there, gazing out sluggishly upon a soggy world.