Chapter 86

Probyn responded with a wooden movement of the right arm. “Sit down—won’t you?” “Thanks.” “Care for a cigar?” “Not in the middle of the afternoon, and not at my age. Fine place—this—of yours, Probyn.” “Yes; nice old place. Still at Castle Craven?” “Yes; still at Castle Craven.” And Probyn looked at his father, and went to pick up the letter that lay on the desk. His movements were slow and heavy, as though the workings of his consciousness were weighted and delayed—and most uncomfortably so—by that other presence. …