The House in Lordship Lane by A.E.W. Mason

INDEED Septimus had something to tell. He sat in an arm-chair in a big room overlooking the Square and overlooked by none. He was bathed, shaven, dressed in clean linen borrowed from Ricardo, with a dark-blue dressing-gown over all. But, the marks of terror were still engraved upon his face and his eyes were the eyes, unmistakably explicit, of one who has passed through the shadows of death. They tell no story, they deny that they have a story to tell, but they inspire the prayer, "God forbid that I should suffer as this man has!" And he was years older, shrunken in his spirit and his courage as much as in his frame. He was like, too, some sharp and watchful animal of the forests and the heath. The simplest little unexpected sound set him quivering and, still worse, cringing, as if there were no end to the new horrors which stood darkly about him. That this man had ever commanded a great ship through gales and reefs, across the wide oceans of the world, and brought his cargoes and his passengers safe to far ports, seemed to the most unimaginative of his visitors beyond credulity itself to believe.

Happily Mr. Ricardo had an inspiration from a kindly heart. He came into, the room with Maltby and Hanaud at his heels, carrying a box of Havana cigars. It was all very well for Septimus to tell the world that his cigars were the best, but they were no better than Ricardo's. And, as he held out the box, Ricardo said: "I thought that you might like to lunch alone, Mr. Crottle, after these stormy times, but these I hope you will enjoy in company."