Mariana was haggard, the paint on her face crudely—­paint.  He saw that there were tears in her eyes, and he turned away confused, rose.  The slot in his cigarette box refused to open, and he shook it violently, then put it back with a clatter.  “Tell Rudolph you’re here,” he said disjointedly; and, miserable, left the room.  Dressing he stood at a window; the west held a narrow strip of crimson light under a windy mass of cloud.  The ruin of Shadrach Furnace was sombre.  Within, the room was almost bare.  There was a large, high-posted bed without drapings, a vermilion lacquered table, dark with age, supporting a glass lamp at its side; a set of drawers with old brass handles; a pair of stiff Adam chairs with wheel backs; and a modern mahogany dressing case, variously and conveniently divided, a clear mirror in the door.

The day failed rapidly, and he lit a pair of small lamps on the set of drawers.  The sun sank in no time at all.  Mariana, crying.  The girl ought to go to her mother, and not come out to him, an old man, with her intimate troubles.  “A name I never repeat,” Charlotte had said.  That was just like her.  Small sympathy there, and no more understanding.  He knotted his tie hurriedly, askew; and gathered the ends once more.  It tired him a little to dress in the evening; often he longed to stay relaxed, pondering, until Rudolph called him to dinner.  But every day something automatic, tyrannical, dragged him up to his room, encased him in rigid linen, formal black.  Mariana, against the fireplace, ate listlessly; and, later, he beat her with shameful ease at sniff.

“You can’t do that,” he pointed out with asperity, when she thoughtlessly joined unequal numbers.  “Why not?” she asked.  She must be addled.  “It’s against the rule.”  Mariana said, “I’m tired of rules.”  She always had put away the dominoes, but to-night she ignored them, and he returned the pieces to their morocco case.  She relapsed into silence and a chair; and he sat with gaze fixed on the hickory in the fireplace, burning to impalpable, white ash.

What a procession of logs had been there reduced to dust, warming generations of men now cold.  The thought of all those lapsed winters and lives soothed him; the clamour of living seemed to retreat, to leave him in a grey tranquillity.  His head sank forward, and his narrow, dark hands rested in absolute immobility on the arms of his chair.  He roused suddenly to discover that Mariana had gone up, and that there were only some fitful, rosy embers of fire left.  In November it had been his custom to go into town for the winter; and it was time for him to make such arrangement; but, all at once, he was overwhelmingly reluctant to face the change, the stir, of moving.  The city seemed intolerably noisy, oppressive; the thought of the hurrying, indifferent crowds disconcerted him.  At Shadrach it was quiet, familiar, spacious.  He had had enough of excursions, strange faces, problems....  He would speak to Rudolph.  Stay.