All at once he became convinced that he
must have something to eat while he read, and so went to the kitchen and
got himself some apples and a huge slice of fresh bread. Ever since
Vandover was a little boy he had loved fresh bread and apples. Through
the windows of the dining-room he saw Mr. Corkle digging up great holes
in the geranium beds. He went out and abused him and finally let him
come back into the house and took him upstairs with him.
Then at last he settled down to his novel, in the very comfortable
leather chair, before a little fire, for the last half of August is cold
in San Francisco. The room was warm and snug, the fresh bread and apples
were delicious, the good tobacco in his pipe purred like a sleeping
kitten, and his novel was interesting and well written. He felt calm and
soothed and perfectly content, and took in the pleasure of the occasion
with the lazy complacency of a drowsing cat.
Vandover was self-indulgent--he loved these sensuous pleasures, he loved
to eat good things, he loved to be warm, he loved to sleep. He hated to
be bored and worried--he liked to have a good time.
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