XI
THE SPY
Whitaker slept soundly but lightly: the adventures of the evening had not been so
fatiguing as to render his slumbers profound, after three days of sheer loafing.
And he awoke early, roused by a level beam of blood-red light thrown full upon
his face by the rising sun.
He lay for a time languid, watching the incarnadined walls and lazily examining
the curious thrill of interest with which he found himself anticipating the day to
come. It seemed a long time since he had looked forward to the mere routine of
existence with so strong an assurance of emotional diversion. He idled in
whimsical humour with an odd conceit to the effect that the roots of his soul had
somehow been mysteriously watered, so that it was about to burgeon like a green
bay tree—whatever that might
