CHAPTER V

(I)

Dick Guiseley sat over breakfast in his rooms off Oxford Street, entirely engrossed in a local Yorkshire paper two days old.

His rooms were very characteristic of himself.  They were five in number—­a dining-room, two bedrooms, and two sitting-rooms divided by curtains, as well as a little entrance-hall that opened on to the landing, close beside the lift that served all the flats.  They were furnished in a peculiarly restrained style—­so restrained, in fact, that it was almost impossible to remember what was in them.  One was just conscious of a sense of extreme comfort and convenience.  There was nothing in particular that arrested the attention or caught the eye, except here and there a space or a patch of wall about which Dick had not yet made up his mind.  He had been in them two years, indeed, but he had not nearly finished furnishing.  From time to time a new piece of furniture appeared, or a new picture—­always exceedingly good of its kind, and even conspicuous.  Yet, somehow or other, so excellent was his taste, as soon as the thing was in place its conspicuousness (so to speak) vanished amidst the protective coloring, and it looked as if it had been there for ever.  The colors were chosen with the same superfine skill:  singly they were brilliant, or at least remarkable (the ceilings, for instance, were of a rich buttercup yellow); collectively they were subdued and unnoticeable.  And I suppose this is exactly what rooms ought to be.

The breakfast-table at which he sat was a good instance of his taste.  The silver-plate on it was really remarkable.  There was a delightful Caroline tankard in the middle, placed there for the sheer pleasure of looking at it; there was a large silver cow with a lid in its back; there were four rat-tail spoons; the china was an extremely cheap Venetian crockery of brilliant designs and thick make.  The coffee-pot and milk-pot were early Georgian, with very peculiar marks; but these vessels were at present hidden under the folded newspaper.  There were four chrysanthemums in four several vases of an exceptional kind of glass.  It sounds startling, I know, but the effect was not startling, though I cannot imagine why not.  Here again one was just conscious of freshness and suitability and comfort.

* * * * *

But Dick was taking no pleasure in it all this morning.  He was feeling almost physically sick, and the little spirit-heated silver dish of kidneys on his Queen Anne sideboard was undisturbed.  He had cut off the top of an egg which was now rapidly cooling, and a milky surface resembling thin ice was forming on the contents of his coffee-cup.  And meanwhile he read.