He sat down automatically at his table in the window, and took out of a pigeonhole a crumpled bundle of scribbled paper. It was the beginning of a long poem. He had begun it⁠—when? Two⁠—three weeks ago. Before Emily. He read through what he had written, and thought it bad⁠—weak, flabby, uneven stuff⁠—as it stood. But it was a good idea, and he could do it justice, he was sure, if he persevered. But not now. Just now he was incapable. Since Emily’s night he had not written a line of poetry; he had only tried once. Not because of his conscience⁠—it was the anxiety, the worry. He could not concentrate.

A bell rang below, and he wondered if it was John Egerton. There was the sound of conversation in the hall, Cook’s voice and the voice of a man, powerful and low. Then Cook lumbered up the stairs.

“If you please, sir, there’s a man brought the sack back what Mr. Egerton took, as used to ’ang in the scullery, and ’e’d like to see you.”