In spite of the snow, however, the little room was feverishly hot, owing to the gigantic exertions of the small iron cylinder-stove.  The round aperture over the little door was glowing red, like an enraged eye; and the quivering radiation of the heat from the polished black surface was plainly perceptible to the sight.  The room had lost something of the neat and fastidious appearance which it had worn a few months before.  The colored drawing of a patent derrick, fastened to the wall by a tack at each corner of the paper, had broken loose at one end, and was curling over on itself like a withered leaf.  The string by which the ingenious almanac had been suspended over the mantel-piece was broken, letting the almanac neatly down into the crevice between the wall and a couple of fat dictionaries, which lay, one on top of the other, upon the ledge.  It was quite hidden from view, with the exception of one corner, which was a little tilted upward, showing the hole through which the faithless string had passed.

The terrestrial and astronomical globes bore the appearance of not having revolved for a long time.  A part of the pictured surface of the latter had scaled off, disclosing a blank whiteness beneath.  Even the heavens, it seemed, were a sham; nothing more than a varnished painting upon a plaster-of-Paris foundation.  The flower-pots still stood in the windows, but hot air and an irregular water-supply had made sad inroads upon the beauty of the plants.  The lower leaves were turned brown; some of them had fallen off, and lay—­poor, little unburied corpses—­upon the narrow circle of earth which, having failed to keep life green within their cells, now denied to them the right of sepulture.  A few of the topmost sprouts still struggled to keep up a parody of verdure, and one or two faded flowers had not yet forsaken their calices—­a silly piece of devotion on their part!  Icy little blasts, squeezing in through the crevices of the window-sash, whistled about the forlorn stalks, cutting and venomous.  The poor flowers would never see another summer; better give up at once!

Even the books which met the eye on every side, wore a deserted air.  Not that they were dusty, for the chambermaid did her duty, if Bressant failed in his; but there was something in the heavy, methodical manner of their sleeping upon one another, such as they could never have settled into had they been recently disturbed or opened.  The outside of a book is often as eloquent, in its way, as any part of the contents.

Bressant’s arms were folded, and the perpendicular line up from between the eyebrows was quite in harmony with the rest of his appearance.  He was weary, harassed, and divided against himself.  Insincerity made him uncomfortable; it compelled continual exertion, and of a paltry and degrading kind; and it gave neither a sense of security, nor a prospect of future advantage.  Five days from now he was to be married; the duties of a parish minister were to be undertaken, and he felt himself neither mentally nor morally fitted or inclined for the office.  Five days from now the professor would expect from him that gift at which he had hinted during their drive; and he had done nothing, either in act or purpose, to fulfil his promise concerning it.