It would return again and break him down, but for the moment
it was lifted, giving him room and power to breathe. He did
breathe--long deep draughts of the cool night air that brought
refreshment and something like strength to struggle on.
He came back into the room. His pens and papers were scattered on the
floor, and ink from the overturned inkstand was running out on the
Oriental rug. It was the kind of detail that before this evening would
have shocked him; but nothing mattered now. He was too indifferent to
lift his hand and put the inkstand back into its place. Instead, he
threw himself on a couch, turning his face to the still open window and
drinking in with thirsty gasps the blessed, revivifying air.
V
Guion awoke in a chill, gray light, to find himself covered with a rug,
and his daughter, wrapped in a white dressing-gown, bending above him.
Over her shoulder peered the scared face of a maid. His first sensation
was that he was cold, his first act to pull the rug more closely about
him. His struggle back to waking consciousness was the more confused
because of the familiar surroundings of the library.
"Oh, papa, what's the matter?"
He threw the coverlet from him and dragged himself to a sitting posture.
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