II

The appointed time was at the November dusk, hurried forward nearly an
hour by the falling panoply of smoke driven westward over the Park by the
wet east wind. And the rector was conducted, with due ceremony, to the
office upstairs which he had never again expected to enter, where that
other memorable interview had taken place. The curtains were drawn. And
if the green-shaded lamp--the only light in the room--had been arranged
by a master of dramatic effect, it could not have better served the
setting.

In spite of Alison's letter, Holder was unprepared for the ravages a few
days had made in the face of Eldon Parr. Not that he appeared older: the
impression was less natural, more sinister. The skin had drawn sharply
over the cheek-bones, and strangely the eyes both contradicted and
harmonized with the transformation of the features. These, too, had
changed. They were not dead and lustreless, but gleamed out of the
shadowy caverns into which they had sunk, unyielding, indomitable in
torment,--eyes of a spirit rebellious in the fumes . . . .

This spirit somehow produced the sensation of its being separated from
the body, for the movement of the hand, inviting Holder to seat himself,
seemed almost automatic.

"I understand," said Eldon Parr, "that you wish to marry my daughter."

"It is true that I am to marry Alison," Holder answered, "and that I
intended, later on, to come to inform you of the fact."

He did not mention the death of Preston. Condolences, under the