g
beneficence of the plan that knocked him over. Watch Opdyke, not when
he is swearing picturesquely, but when his mouth shuts and gets white
around the corners with the mental pain, not the physical; and then you
will take in what I mean." And Dolph, his face uncommonly grave and
overcast, nodded shortly and went on his way, his fists stuffed into
his pockets and his grim face half buried in his cavernous collar.

And, meanwhile, the poor "puffic' fibbous" lay and fidgetted uneasily,
while he wondered why Olive Keltridge had chosen that day, of all days,
to delay her customary call. She was not ill. Ramsdell, his nurse, had
seen her pass the house, that morning, walking with the swift, alert
step which Opdyke knew so well, the step that, in the old days, had
accompanied his boyish explorations of every by-path in the region. No;
something had detained her. She would surely be in later; and Reed
strained his ears, hour after hour, to listen for the buzz of the
front-door bell.

At last it buzzed, and the long form relaxed its stiffening. Half past
five! That meant the shortest possible time for talk. Still, it would
be better than nothing; the half-loaf would keep him from going hungry
to bed. His eyes were eager, as he watched the door. Then the eagerness
went out of them. The door swung open. Not Olive, but Prather, the
fussy little novelist, came in. Opdyke's lean fingers shut savagely
upon the rug that covered him. It would have been a relief if he could
have torn it into tatters.

Later, that night, after Ramsdell had shunted him back into bed, and
had covered him up as carefully as one covers a six-months baby, and
had put the room in order for the night, and then had uttered his
nightly query if that was "really hall, sir," left to himself, Reed
Opdyke set out to become very philosophical as concerned his
predicament. He merely succeeded in becoming very conscious of his
utter, aching loneliness, the loneliness which only comes to those
suddenly deprived of action.

Of course, he acknowledged to himself, a man of his training and
experience ought to have untold possibilities of interest inherent in
himself. He ought to be able to dip a bucket into his brain, and pull
it up, dripping with all sorts of new and amusing thoughts which should
keep him brilliant company for hours and hours. He ought to be able to
lose the consciousness of the narrow present in the wide sweep of his
past memories. He ought to be ab