XV

Claude dreaded the inactivity of the winter, to which the farmer usually looks forward with pleasure.  He made the Thanksgiving football game a pretext for going up to Lincoln,—­went intending to stay three days and stayed ten.  The first night, when he knocked at the glass door of the Erlichs’ sitting-room and took them by surprise, he thought he could never go back to the farm.  Approaching the house on that clear, frosty autumn evening, crossing the lawn strewn with crackling dry leaves, he told himself that he must not hope to find things the same.  But they were the same.  The boys were lounging and smoking about the square table with the lamp on it, and Mrs. Erlich was at the piano, playing one of Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without Words.”  When he knocked, Otto opened the door and called: 

“A surprise for you, Mother!  Guess who’s here.”

What a welcome she gave him, and how much she had to tell him!  While they were all talking at once, Henry, the oldest son, came downstairs dressed for a Colonial ball, with satin breeches and stockings and a sword.  His brothers began to point out the inaccuracies of his costume, telling him that he couldn’t possibly call himself a French emigre unless he wore a powdered wig.  Henry took a book of memoirs from the shelf to prove to them that at the time when the French emigres were coming to Philadelphia, powder was going out of fashion.

During this discussion, Mrs. Erlich drew Claude aside and told him in excited whispers that her cousin Wilhelmina, the singer, had at last been relieved of the invalid husband whom she had supported for so many years, and now was going to marry her accompanist, a man much younger than herself.

After the French emigre had gone off to his party, two young instructors from the University dropped in, and Mrs. Erlich introduced Claude as her “landed proprietor” who managed a big ranch out in one of the western counties.  The instructors took their leave early, but Claude stayed on.  What was it that made life seem so much more interesting and attractive here than elsewhere?  There was nothing wonderful about this room; a lot of books, a lamp... comfortable, hard-used furniture, some people whose lives were in no way remarkable—­and yet he had the sense of being in a warm and gracious atmosphere, charged with generous enthusiasms and ennobled by romantic friendships.  He was glad to see the same pictures on the wall; to find the Swiss wood-cutter on the mantel, still bending under his load of faggots; to handle again the heavy brass paper-knife that in its time had cut so many interesting pages.  He picked it up from the cover of a red book lying there,-one of Trevelyan’s volumes on Garibaldi, which Julius told him he must read before he was another week older.