Love in Chief by R.K. Weekes — Read

Farquhar went home in a mood of black, resentful anger, which he aimed, since his creed disallowed a personal deity, at the callous rocks and the soulless forces of nature. He forgot grief as he had forgotten pain. He walked on, swinging his injured arm and cursing as he went; and in this temper he came to the hotel, and received the sympathy of a number of uninteresting people without betraying a vestige of his actual sentiments. They thought him magnanimous, heroic, oppressed with bitter grief; and with the good taste of their nation they left him alone with his sorrow.

In the salon place was laid for one, and the sight sickened Farquhar; it was like the turning of a screw in his breast. He paced the room for five minutes before he could bring himself even to sit down. There were two letters for him on his plate, blue on the thick white china. Bills they seemed, enclosed in thin blue envelopes of the ordinary oblong business shape; he took them up idly and glanced at the address. One was for him and one for Lucian: both in Dolly Fane's handwriting.