* * * * *
It took Neergard all day to read that column before he folded it away
and pigeonholed it among a lot of dusty documents--uncollected claims, a
memorandum of a deal with Ruthven, a note from an actress, and the
papers in his case against the Siowitha Club which would never come to
a suit--he knew it now--never amount to anything. So among these
archives of dead desires, dead hopes, and of vengeance deferred _sine
die_, he laid away the soiled newspaper.
Then he went home, very tired with a mental lassitude that depressed him
and left him drowsy in his great arm-chair before the grate--too drowsy
and apathetic to examine the letters and documents laid out for him by
his secretary, although one of them seemed to be important--something
about alienation of affections, something about a yacht and Mrs.
Ruthven, and a heavy suit to be brought unless other settlement was
suggested as a balm to Mr. Ruthven.
To dress for dinner was an effort--a purely mechanical operation which
was only partly successful, although his man aided him.
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