"Likely turn to rain before night," Hogg said, as he turned back to the
bar. Falk sat there watching. Some of the men he knew, some he did not,
but to-day they were all shadows to him. Strange how, from the moment that
he crossed the threshold of that place, hot, burning excitement and
expectation lapped him about, swimming up to him, engulfing him, swamping
him body and soul. He sat there drowned in it, not stirring, his eyes
fixed upon the door. There was a good deal of noise, laughter, swearing,
voices raised and dropped, forming a kind of skyline, and above this a
voice telling an interminable tale.

Annie Hogg came in, and at once Falk's throat contracted and his heart
hammered in the palms of his hands. She moved about, talking to the men,
fetching drinks, unconcerned and aloof as she always was. Seen there in
the mist of the overcrowded and evil-smelling room, there was nothing very
remarkable about her. Stalwart and resolute and self-possessed she looked;
sometimes she was beautiful, but not now. She was a woman at whom most men
would havel ooked twice. Her expression was not sullen nor disdainful; in
that, perhaps, there was something fine, because there was life, of its
own kind, in her eyes, and independence in the carriage of her head.

Falk never took his eyes from her. At that moment she came down the room
and saw him. She did not come over to him at once, but stopped and talked
to some one at another table. At last she was beside him, standing up
against his table and looking over his head at the window behind him.

"Nasty weather, Mr. Brandon," she said. Her voice was low and not
unpleasant; although she rolled her r's her Glebeshire accent was not very
strong, and she spoke slowly, as though she were trying to choose her
words.