When I came to look at our Ruin by the full lamplight I was surprised to see what a change a little warm water and a comb had wrought in him.  He came to the table uncertain, blinking, apologetic.  His forehead, I saw, was really impressive—­high, narrow and thin-skinned.  His face gave one somehow the impression of a carving once full of significant lines, now blurred and worn as though Time, having first marked it with the lines of character, had grown discouraged and brushed the hand of forgetfulness over her work.  He had peculiar thin, silky hair of no particular colour, with a certain almost childish pathetic waviness around the ears and at the back of the neck.  Something, after all, about the man aroused one’s compassion.

I don’t know that he looked dissipated, and surely he was not as dirty as I had at first supposed.  Something remained that suggested a care for himself in the past.  It was not dissipation, I decided; it was rather an indefinable looseness and weakness, that gave one alternately the feeling I had first experienced, that of anger, succeeded by the compassion that one feels for a child.  To Harriet, when she had once seen him, he was all child, and she all compassion.

We disturbed him with no questions.  Harriet’s fundamental quality is homeliness, comfortableness.  Her tea-kettle seems always singing; an indefinable tabbiness, as of feather cushions, lurks in her dining-room, a right warmth of table and chairs, indescribably comfortable at the end of a chilly day.  A busy good-smelling steam arises from all her dishes at once, and the light in the middle of the table is of a redness that enthralls the human soul.  As for Harriet herself, she is the personification of comfort, airy, clean, warm, inexpressibly wholesome.  And never in the world is she so engaging as when she ministers to a man’s hunger.  Truthfully, sometimes, when she comes to me out of the dimmer light of the kitchen to the radiance of the table with a plate of muffins, it is as though she and the muffins were a part of each other, and that she is really offering some of herself.  And down in my heart I know she is doing just that!

Well, it was wonderful to see our Ruin expand in the warmth of Harriet’s presence.  He had been doubtful of me; of Harriet, I could see, he was absolutely sure.  And how he did eat, saying nothing at all, while Harriet plied him with food and talked to me of the most disarming commonplaces.  I think it did her heart good to see the way he ate:  as though he had had nothing before in days.  As he buttered his muffin, not without some refinement, I could see that his hand was long, a curious, lean, ineffectual hand, with a curving little finger.  With the drinking of the hot coffee colour began to steal up into his face, and when Harriet brought out a quarter of pie saved over from our dinner and placed it before him—­a fine brown pie with small hieroglyphics in the top from whence rose sugary bubbles—­he seemed almost to escape himself.  And Harriet fairly purred with hospitality.