The light began to deepen from the pale pink to a crimson which stained the tops and steeps of snow, and deepened the dark of the woods massed on the mountain slopes between the irregular fields of white.  The burnished brown of the hard-wood trees, the dull carbon shadows of the evergreens, seemed to wither to one black as the red strengthened in the sky.  Westover realized that he had lost the best of any possible picture in letting that first delicate color escape him.  This crimson was harsh and vulgar in comparison; it would have almost a chromo quality; he censured his pleasure in it as something gross and material, like that of eating; and on a sudden he felt hungry.  He wondered what time they would give him supper, and he took slight account of the fact that a caprice of the wind had torn its hood of snow from the mountain summit, and that the profile of the Lion’s Head showed almost as distinctly as in summer.  He stood before the picture which for that day at least was lost to him, and questioned whether there would be a hearty meal, something like a dinner, or whether there would be something like a farmhouse supper, mainly of doughnuts and tea.

He pulled up his window and was going to lie down again, when some one knocked, and Frank Whitwell stood at the door.  “Do you want we should bring your supper to you here, Mr. Westover, or will you—­”

“Oh, let me join you all!” cried the painter, eagerly.  “Is it ready—­shall I come now?”

“Well, in about five minutes or so.”  Frank went away, after setting down in the room the lamp he had brought.  It was a lamp which Westover thought he remembered from the farm-house period, and on his way down he realized as he had somehow not done in his summer sojourns, the entirety of the old house in the hotel which had encompassed it.  The primitive cold of its stairways and passages struck upon him as soon as he left his own room, and he found the parlor door closed against the chill.  There was a hot stove-fire within, and a kerosene-lamp turned low, but there was no one there, and he had the photograph of his first picture of Lion’s Head to himself in the dim light.  The voices of Mrs. Durgin and Cynthia came to him from the dining-room, and from the kitchen beyond, with the occasional clash of crockery, and the clang of iron upon iron about the stove, and the quick tread of women’s feet upon the bare floor.  With these pleasant noises came the smell of cooking, and later there was an opening and shutting of doors, with a thrill of the freezing air from without, and the dull thumping of Whitwell’s rubber boots, and the quicker flapping of Jombateeste’s soft leathern soles.  Then there was the sweep of skirted feet at the parlor door, and Cynthia Whitwell came in without perceiving him.  She went to the table by the darkening window, and quickly turned up the light of the lamp.  In her ignorance of his presence, he saw her as if she had been alone, almost as if she were out of the body; he received from her unconsciousness the impression of something rarely pure and fine, and he had a sudden compassion for her, as for something precious that is fated to be wasted or misprized.  At a little movement which he made to relieve himself from a sense of eavesdropping, she gave a start, and shut her lips upon the little cry that would have escaped from another sort of woman.