Henry
Mortimer, had become peculiarly distasteful to Mr. Bennett.
Much has been written of great friendships between man and man,
friendships which neither woman can mar nor death destroy. Rufus
Bennett had always believed that his friendship for Mr. Mortimer was of
this order. They had been boys together in the same small town, and had
kept together in after years. They had been Damon and Pythias, David
and Jonathan. But never till now had they been cooped up together
in an English country-house in the middle of a bad patch of English
summer weather. So this afternoon Mr. Bennett, in order to avoid his
life-long friend, had gone to bed.
He awoke now with a start, and a moment later realized what it was that
had aroused him. There was music in the air. The room was full of it.
It seemed to be coming up through the floor and rolling about in chunks
all round his bed. He blinked the last fragments of sleep out of his
system, and became filled with a restless irritability.
He rang the bell violently, and presently there entered a grave, thin,
intellectual man who looked like a duke, only more respectable.
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