Every one in Starkfield knew him and gave him a greeting tempered to
his own grave mien; but his taciturnity was respected and it was
only on rare occasions that one of the older men of the place
detained him for a word. When this happened he would listen quietly,
his blue eyes on the speaker's face, and answer in so low a tone
that his words never reached me; then he would climb stiffly into
his buggy, gather up the reins in his left hand and drive slowly
away in the direction of his farm.

"It was a pretty bad smash-up?" I questioned Harmon, looking after
Frome's retreating figure, and thinking how gallantly his lean brown
head, with its shock of light hair, must have sat on his strong
shoulders before they were bent out of shape.

"Wust kind," my informant assented. "More'n enough to kill most men.
But the Fromes are tough. Ethan'll likely touch a hundred."

"Good God!" I exclaimed. At the moment Ethan Frome, after climbing
to his seat, had leaned over to assure himself of the security of a
wooden box-also with a druggist's label on it-which he had placed in
the back of the buggy, and I saw his face as it probably looked when
he thought himself alone. "That man touch a hundred? He looks as if
he was dead and in hell now!"

Harmon drew a slab of tobacco from his pocket, cut off a wedge and
pressed it into the leather pouch of his cheek. "Guess he's been in
Starkfield too many winters. Most of the smart ones get away."

"Why didn't he?"