The two men differ greatly in expression.  The Colonel’s face is lined with weather, with age, with eating and drinking, and with the cumulative effects of many petty vexations, but not with thought:  he is still fresh, and he has by no means full expectations of pleasure and novelty.  Cuthbertson has the lines of sedentary London brain work, with its chronic fatigue and longing for rest and recreative emotion, and its disillusioned indifference to adventure and enjoyment, except as a means of recuperation.

They are both in evening dress; and Cuthbertson wears his fur collared overcoat, which, with his vigilant, irascible eye, piled up hair, and the honorable earnestness with which he takes himself, gives him an air of considerable consequence.

Cuthbertson (with a hospitable show of delight at finding visitors).  Don’t stop, Miss Craven.  Go on, Charteris. (He comes down behind the sofa, and hangs his overcoat on it, after taking an opera glass and a theatre programme from the pockets, and putting them down on the piano.  Craven meanwhile goes to the fire-place and stands on the hearthrug.)

Charteris.  No, thank you.  Miss Craven has just been taking me through an old song; and I’ve had enough of it. (He takes the song off the piano desk and lays it aside; then closes the lid over the keyboard.)

Julia (passing between the sofa and piano to shake hands with Cuthbertson).  Why, you’ve brought Daddy!  What a surprise! (Looking across to Craven.) So glad you’ve come, Dad. (She takes a chair near the window, and sits there.)

Cuthbertson.  Craven:  let me introduce you to Mr. Leonard Charteris, the famous Ibsenist philosopher.

Craven.  Oh, we know one another already.  Charteris is quite at home at our house, Jo.

Cuthbertson.  I beg both your pardons. (Charteris sits down on the piano stool.) He’s quite at home here too.  By the bye, where’s Grace?

Julia and Charteris.  Er—­ (They stop and look at one another.)

Julia (politely).  I beg your pardon, Mr. Charteris:  I interrupted you.

Charteris.  Not at all, Miss Craven. (An awkward pause.)

Cuthbertson (to help them out).  You were going to tell about Grace,
Charteris.

Charteris.  I was only going to say that I didn’t know that you and
Craven were acquainted.

Craven.  Why, I didn’t know it until to-night.  It’s a most extraordinary thing.  We met by chance at the theatre; and he turns out to be my oldest friend.

Cuthbertson (energetically).  Yes, Craven; and do you see how this proves what I was saying to you about the breaking up of family life?  Here are all our young people—­Grace and Miss Julia and the rest—­bosom friends, inseparables; and yet we two, who knew each other before they were born, might never have met again if you hadn’t popped into the stall next to mine to-night by pure chance.  Come, sit down (bustling over to him affectionately and pushing him into the arm chair above the fire):  there’s your place, by my fireside, whenever you choose to fill it. (He posts himself at the right end of the sofa, leaning against it and admiring Craven.) Just imagine your being Dan Craven!