Finally, no doubt, it had died a death of violence. John thought then of Emily, and sighed heavily. But he was feeling better now. Silence and the river had soothed him; and⁠—given quiet and solitude⁠—he had the Civil Servant’s capacity for switching his mind from urgent worries to sedative thoughts. The cat, somehow, had been a sedative, in spite of its violent end. He went indoors out of the dark garden, studiously not looking at Stephen’s windows.

While he was on the stairs the telephone-bell rang in his study. He took off the receiver and listened moodily to a profound silence, varied only by the sound of someone furtively picking a lock with the aid of a dynamo. Angrily he banged on the receiver and arranged himself in an armchair with a heavy book.

When he had done this the bell rang again. A petulant voice⁠—no doubt justifiably petulant⁠—said suddenly, “Are you the Midland Railway?”

John said, “No,” and rang off; then he thought of all the bitter and ironic things he ought to have said and regretted his haste.