And, by way of checking his housekeeper's familiarity, he pointed significantly to the table. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. He looked at her, hurt. Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. I didn't think. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. .
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