The major's powerful old hands writhed around the arms of his chair and
his eyes glowed into the embers like live sparks. It was years, nearly
thirty years ago--but, God, how the tragedy of it came back! The hot
blood beat into his veins and he could feel it and see it all. Would
the picture always burn in his brain? Nearly thirty years ago--

The logs crashed apart in the hearth and with a start the major rose to
his feet, a tear dashed aside under his shaggy old eyebrows. He would go
back to his Immortals--and forget. Perhaps Phoebe would come in for
lunch. That would make forgetting easier.

Where had the girl been for the last few days? He smiled as he found
himself in something of David's dismay at not having seen the busy young
woman for quite a time.

And it was perhaps an hour later that, as he sat in the breakfast room
partaking of his lunch in solitary comfort, lost to the world, his wish
for her brought its materialization. He had the morning's paper propped
up before him and an outspread book rested by his plate, while he
held a large volume balanced on his knee, which he paused occasionally to
consult.

Mrs. Buchanan had telephoned that she would be home with her guest at
five o'clock and his mind was filled with pleasant anticipation. But
there was never a time with the major, no matter how filled the life was
around him with the excitement of events, with the echo of joy or
woe, the clash of social strife or the turmoil of vaster interests, when
he failed to be able to plunge into his books and lose himself
completely.