As Mr. Mindon read it, he felt as if his mind was spinning out of control. He sat down heavily in the chair near his wife’s little writing table. Now the room looked cold and unfamiliar. «Who are you?» the walls seemed to say. «Who am I?» Mr. Mindon said in a loud voice. «I’ll tell you who I am! I am the man who paid for every piece of furniture in this room. If it were not for me and my money, this room would be empty!» Suddenly, Mr. Mindon felt taller. He marched across his wife’s room. It belonged to him, didn’t it? The house belonged to him, too. He felt powerful. He sat at the table and wrote a letter to Millicent. One of the servants came into the room. «Did you call, sir?» he asked. «No,» Mr. Mindon replied. «But since you are here, please telephone for a taxi cab at once.» The taxi took him to a hotel near his bank. A clerk showed him to his room. It smelled of cheap soap. The window in the room was open and hot noises came up from the street. Mr. Mindon looked at his watch. Four o’clock. He wondered if Millicent had come home yet and read his letter.