window and looked out at a traffic light on 2nd Avenue. I watched the colours change through the ice-covered glass - red to green and back to red again — and suddenly, yet slowly, a peaceful feeling came over me.
I cannot explain that feeling. It made no sense. But it made me think, for the first time for years, about winter nights in the Wisconsin farmhouse where I grew up. It made me remember lying in my bed in a cold upstairs room and listening to the biting wind outside; and the way I thought about the miles of deep snow, and then compared it with my warm and comfortable body inside my bed . . .
There were some strange law books on the library shelves, and others by Charles Dickens and Daniel Defoe. There were also eleven books by an author called Edward Gray Seville. These had green leather covers and the name of the publisher was printed in gold: Stedham and Son. I had never heard of Seville or his publishers. The first book - These Were Our Brothers - had the date 1911 inside; the last — Breakers — 1935.
At some time during the evening, Stevens came by with a second Martini. It was as perfect as the first. As I drank it slowly, I saw George Gregson and Harry Stein (who had been dead six years when Emlyn McCarron told us the story of the Breathing Method) leave the room through a strange door. It was less than three feet high. They left it open, and soon after I heard the soft sounds of a billiard game.
Stevens passed by and asked if I wanted another Martini. I was really sorry to have to say no. He nodded. 'Very good, sir.' His face never changed, but I got the feeling that I had pleased him.
Later, someone threw something into the fire, and for a few moments the flames changed colours. It made me remember a time when I had done something similar as a child. The memory was strong and not at all sad, just pleasant. (I feel it is important to say that, although I don't know why.)