His meagre face, too, with its infinity of anxious yet
meaningless lines, and its dim spectacled eyes, so plainly
overtaxed by the effort to discern anything clearly,
might have belonged to any old village priest grown
childish and blear-eyed in the solitude of stupid books.
Even the blotches of tell-tale colour on his long nose
were not altogether unclerical in their suggestion.
A poor old man he seemed, as he stood blinking in the
electric light of the strange, warm apartment--a helpless,
worn old creature, inured through long years to bleak
adverse winds, hoping now for nothing better in this world
than present shelter.
"How do you do, Mr. Thorpe," he said, after a moment,
with nervous formality. "This is unexpectedly kind
of you, sir."
"Why--not at all!" said Thorpe, shaking him cordially
by the hand. "What have we got houses for, but to put up
our old friends? And how are you, anyway? You've brought
your belongings, have you? That's right!" He glanced into
the hall, to make sure that they were being taken upstairs,
and then closed the door. "I suppose you've dined.
Take off your hat and coat! Make yourself at home.
That's it--take the big chair, there--so! And now let's
have a look at you. Well, Tavender, my man, you haven't
grown any younger. But I suppose none of us do.
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