The Tyrant

Abstract

There had been a dinner party at the house of Mr Patrick Sheridan, the barrister. The guests had all departed, but it seemed that they were yet present in the drawing-room, which was not perfectly silent, with that intense silence which follows the loud murmur of many voices, talking in small groups about a drawing-room, discussing various things. The odour of cigarette smoke still hung about the room, although the large bay window had been flung open wide and the soft, warm, autumn night air was drifting into the room silently. Silently it drifted into the silent room where a minute before there had been a babel of murmuring voices. The ash-trays on the little low tables about the room were laden with cigarette ashes and there was an American newspaper on the couch by the window where a visitor had dropped it, its leaves now being fluttered gently by the incoming humid autumn night breeze.