The clock ticked through the minutes of a half-hour and the afternoon
outside began to thicken and darken turbidly. Alexander, since he first
sat down, had not changed his position. He leaned forward, his hands
between his knees, scarcely breathing, as if he were holding himself
away from his surroundings, from the room, and from the very chair in
which he sat, from everything except the wild eddies of snow above the
river on which his eyes were fixed with feverish intentness, as if he
were trying to project himself thither. When at last Lucius Wilson was
announced, Alexander sprang eagerly to his feet and hurried to meet his
old instructor.
"Hello, Wilson. What luck! Come into the library. We are to have a lot
of people to dinner to-night, and Winifred's lying down. You will
excuse her, won't you? And now what about yourself? Sit down and tell me
everything."
"I think I'd rather move about, if you don't mind. I've been sitting in
the train for a week, it seems to me." Wilson stood before the fire with
his hands behind him and looked about the room. "You HAVE been busy.
Bartley, if I'd had my choice of all possible places in which to spend
Christmas, your house would certainly be the place I'd have chosen.
Happy people do a great deal for their friends. A house like this
throws its warmth out. I felt it distinctly as I was coming through
the Berkshires. I could scarcely believe that I was to see Mrs. Bartley
again so soon."
"Thank you, Wilson. She'll be as glad to see you.
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