As Julian came into the room, which was lit only by wax candles, he could
not help comparing it with the room he had just left, in which the body
of Marr lay. The atmosphere of a house is a strange thing, and almost as
definite to the mind as is an appearance to the eye. A sensitive nature
takes it in like a breath of fetid or of fresh air. The atmosphere of the
European Hotel had been sinister and dreary, as of a building consecrated
to hidden deeds, and inhabited mainly by wandering sinners. This home of
a great doctor was open-hearted and receptive, frank and refined. The
sleeping dogs, heaving gently in fawn-coloured beatitude, set upon it the
best hall-mark. It was a house--judging at least by this room--for happy
rest. Yet it was the abode of incessant work, as the great world knew
well. This sanctum alone was the shrine of lotos-eating. The doctor
sometimes laughingly boasted that he had never insulted it by even so
much as writing a post-card within its four walls.
Julian stroked the dogs, who woke to wink upon him majestically,
and sat down. Lawler quietly departed, and he was left alone. When
he first entered the house he had been disappointed at the departure
of Valentine. Now he felt rather glad to have the doctor to himself
for a quiet half-hour.
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