The
one
opened
the
door
with
a
latch-key
and
went
in,
followed
by a
young
fellow
who
awkwardly
removed
his
cap.
He
wore
rough
clothes
that
smacked
of
the
sea,
and
he
was
manifestly
out
of
place
in
the
spacious
hall
in
which
he
found
himself.
He
did
not
know
what
to do
with
his
cap,
and
was
stuffing
it
into
his
coat
pocket
when
the
other
took
it
from
him.
The
act
was
done
quietly
and
naturally,
and
the
awkward
young
fellow
appreciated
it.
“He
understands,”
was
his
thought.
“He’ll
see
me
through
all
right.”…
He
walked
at
the
other’s
heels
with
a
swing
to
his
shoulders,
and
his
legs
spread
“Hold
on,
Arthur,
my
boy,”
he
said,
attempting
to
mask
his
anxiety
with
facetious
utterance.
“This
is
too
much
all
at
once
for
yours
truly.
Give
me a
chance
to
get
my
nerve.
You
know
I
didn’t
want
to
come,
an’ I
guess
your
fam’ly
ain’t
hankerin’
to
see
me
neither.”
“That’s
all
right,”
was
the
reassuring
answer.
“You
mustn’t
be
frightened
at
us.
We’re
just
homely
people
—
Hello,
there’s
a
letter
for
me.”
He
stepped
back
to
the
table,
tore
open
the
envelope,
and
began
to
read,
giving
the
stranger
an
opportunity
to
recover
himself.
And
the
stranger
understood
and
appreciated.
His
was
the
gift
of
sympathy,
understanding;
and
beneath
his
alarmed
exterior
that
sympathetic
process
went
on.
He
mopped
his
forehead
dry
and
glanced
about
him
with
a
controlled
face,
though
in
the
eyes
there
was
an
expression
such
as
wild
animals
betray
when
they
fear
the
trap.
He
was
surrounded
by
the
unknown,
apprehensive
of
what
might
happen,
ignorant
of
what
he
should
do,
aware
that
he
walked
and
bore
himself
awkwardly,
fearful
that
every
attribute
and
power
of
him
was
similarly
afflicted.
He
was
keenly
sensitive,
hopelessly
self-conscious,
and
the
amused
glance
that
the
other
stole
privily
at
him
over
the
top
of
the
letter
burned
into
him
like
a
dagger-thrust.
He
saw
the
glance,
but
he
gave
no
sign,
for
among
the
things
he
had
learned
was
discipline.
Also,
that
dagger-thrust
went
to
his
pride.
He
cursed
himself
for
having
come,
and
at
the
same
time
resolved
that,
happen
what
would,
having
come,
he
would
carry
it
through.
The
lines
of
his
face
hardened,
and
into
his
eyes
came
a
fighting
light.
He
looked
about
more
unconcernedly,
sharply
observant,
every
detail
of
the
pretty
interior
registering
itself
on
his
brain.
His
eyes
were
wide
apart;
nothing
in
their
field
of
vision
escaped;
and
as
they
drank
in
the
beauty
before
them
the
fighting
light
died
out
and a
warm
glow
took
its
place.
He
was
responsive
to
beauty,
and
here
was
cause
to
respond.
An
oil
painting
caught
and
held
him.
A
heavy
surf
thundered
and
burst
over
an
outjutting
rock;
lowering
storm-clouds
covered
the
sky;
and,
outside
the
line
of
surf,
a
pilot-schooner,
close-hauled,
heeled
over
till
every
detail
of
her
deck
was
visible,
was
surging
along
against
a
stormy
sunset
sky.
There
was
beauty,
and
it
drew
him
irresistibly.
He
forgot
his
awkward
walk
and
came
closer
to
the
painting,
very
close.
The
beauty
faded
out
of
the
canvas.
His
face
expressed
his
bepuzzlement.
He
stared
at
what
seemed
a
careless
daub
of
paint,
then
stepped
away.
Immediately
all
the
beauty
flashed
back
into
the
canvas.
“A
trick
picture,”
was
his
thought,
as he
dismissed
it,
though
in
the
midst
of
the
multitudinous
impressions
he
was
receiving
he
found
time
to
feel
a
prod
of
indignation
that
so
much
beauty
should
be
sacrificed
to
make
a
trick.
He
did
not
know
painting.
He
had
been
brought
up on
chromos
and
lithographs
that
were
always
definite
and
sharp,
near
or
far.
He
had
seen
oil
paintings,
it
was
true,
in
the
show
windows
of
shops,
but
the
glass
of
the
windows
had
prevented
his
eager
eyes
from
approaching
too
near.
