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Updated: June 20, 2025
Two sleighs were just dashing up to the station, and from the foremost there sprang a young man muffled in furs. "Weymore? No, these are not the Weymore sleighs." The voice was that of the youth who had jumped to the platform a voice so agreeable that, in spite of the words, it fell consolingly on Faxon's ears.
Then the fixity of the smile became ominous: Faxon saw that its wearer was afraid to let it go. It was evident that Mr. Lavington was unutterably tired too, and the discovery sent a colder current through Faxon's veins. Looking down at his untouched plate, he caught the soliciting twinkle of the champagne glass; but the sight of the wine turned him sick.
We'll ask him if he's got a double. Come on!" But another picture had arrested Faxon, and some minutes elapsed before he and his young host reached the dining-room. It was a large room, with the same conventionally handsome furniture and delicately grouped flowers; and Faxon's first glance showed him that only three men were seated about the dining-table. The man who had stood behind Mr.
"Any friend of Frank's ... delighted ... make yourself thoroughly at home!" In spite of the balmy temperature and complicated conveniences of Faxon's bedroom, the injunction was not easy to obey. It was wonderful luck to have found a night's shelter under the opulent roof of Overdale, and he tasted the physical satisfaction to the full.
Faxon's laugh deepened the sense of solidarity which had so promptly established itself between the two. His friend laughed also. "Mrs. Culme," he explained, "was lunching at my uncle's to-day, and she said you were due this evening. But seven hours is a long time for Mrs. Culme to remember anything."
His hatred seemed to well up out of the very depths of balked effort and thwarted hopes, and the fact made him more pitiable, and yet more dire. Faxon's look reverted to Mr. Lavington, as if to surprise in him a corresponding change. At first none was visible: his pinched smile was screwed to his blank face like a gas-light to a white-washed wall.
He tossed aside his cap and drew the handkerchief across his forehead, which was intensely white, and beaded with moisture, though his face retained a healthy glow. But Faxon's gaze remained fastened to the hand he had uncovered: it was so long, so colourless, so wasted, so much older than the brow he passed it over.
Faxon ordered; and they plodded on. ... At length the lantern ray showed ruts that curved away from the road under tree-darkness. Faxon's spirits rose. "There's the gate! We'll be there in five minutes." As he spoke he caught, above the boundary hedge, the gleam of a light at the farther end of the dark avenue.
Lavington, from the end of the table, reflected his nephew's smile in a glance of impartial benevolence. "Certainly. Come in, Mr. Faxon. If you won't think it a liberty " Mr. Grisben, who sat opposite his host, turned his solid head toward the door. "Of course Mr. Faxon's an American citizen?" Frank Rainer laughed. "That all right! ... Oh, no, not one of your pin-pointed pens, Uncle Jack!
Faxon's first impulse was to look away, to look anywhere else, to resort again to the champagne glass the watchful butler had already brimmed; but some fatal attraction, at war in him with an overwhelming physical resistance, held his eyes upon the spot they feared. The figure was still standing, more distinctly, and therefore more resemblingly, at Mr.
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