I have been dreaming to-night. Old
Trevlyn's wine was too strong for me. Arabel Vere, indeed! Pshaw! Paul
Linmere, are you an idiot?"
Not daring to cast a look behind him, he hurried home, and up to his
spacious parlor on the second floor.
Linmere turned up the gas into a flare, and, throwing off his coat, flung
himself into an arm-chair, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
He looked about the room with half-frightened, searching eyes. He dreaded
solitude, and he feared company, yet felt the necessity of speaking to
something. His eyes lighted on the greyhound dozing on the hearth-rug.
"Leo, Leo," he called, "come here, sir!"
The dog opened his eyes, but gave no responsive wag of his tail. You saw
at once that though Leo was Mr. Paul Linmere's property, and lived with
him, he did not have any attachment for him.
"Come here, sir!" said Linmere, authoritatively.
Still the animal did not stir. Linmere was nervous enough to be excited
to anger by the variest trifle, and the dog's disobedience aroused his
rage.
"Curse the brute!" he cried; and putting his foot against him, he sent
him spinning across the room. Leo did not growl, or cry out, but his
eyes gleamed like coals, and he showed his white teeth with savage but
impotent hatred.
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