I must have stood for twenty seconds watching him while he watched the
fire, before he turned and faced me, and when he did I had forgotten the
words I had framed to greet him. I knew he was preparing to meet a hard
ordeal. He knew as well as I there was no reason why I should be glad to
see him. Yet he showed never a trace of uncertainty. His eye never
wavered. His lips were drawn in the same supercilious upward curve that
gave him the expression I most often remembered. Ten years had not done
much to change him. The pallor I had remembered on his features had been
burned off by a tropical sun. That was all. There was hardly a wrinkle
about his eyes, hardly a tell-tale crease in his high forehead. Wherever
he had been, whatever he had done, his serenity was still unshaken. It
still lay over him, placid and impenetrable. And when he spoke, his voice
was cool and impassive and cast in pleasant modulation.

"So you are here," he remarked, as though he were weighing each word
carefully, "and why did you come? I think I told you in my letter there
was no need unless you wished."

There was something cold and unfriendly in his speech. I tried in vain to
fight down a rising feeling of antagonism, a vague sense of
disappointment. For a moment we glanced at each other coldly.

"I think, sir," I answered, "from a sense of curiosity."

Almost as soon as I had spoken, I was sorry, for some sixth sense told
me I had hurt him. With a lithe, effortless grace he rose from his chair
and faced me, and his smile, half amused, half tolerant, curved his
lips again.