An old man was sitting in the library of the big grey house. A shaded reading-lamp stood on a small table near his elbow. Its light was thrown on an open book lying near it, and on the carved arms of the oak chair in which the man was sitting. It shone clearly on his bloodless old hands, on his parchment-like face and white hair. A log fire was burning in a great open hearth on his right. For the rest, the room was a place of shadows, deepening to gloom in the distant corners, a gloom emphasized by the one small circle of brilliant light, and the red glow of the fire. Book-cases reached from floor to ceiling the whole length of two walls, and between the thickly curtained windows of the third. In the fourth wall was the fireplace and the door.

There was no sound to break the silence. The figure in the oak chair sat motionless. He might have been carved out of stone, for any sign of life he gave. He looked like stone,—white and black marble very finely sculptured,—white marble in head and hands, black marble in the piercing eyes, the long satin dressing-gown, the oak of the big chair. Even his eyes seemed stone-like, motionless, and fixed thoughtfully on space.

The big room was very still. An hour ago it had been full of voices and laughter, amazed questions, and half-mocking explanations.

Later the front door had banged. There had been the sound of steps on the frosty drive, receding in the distance. Then silence.

Nicholas’s eyes turned towards the middle window of the three, surveying the heavy hanging curtain.

A whimsical smile lighted up his grim old mouth.

“After all, it wasn’t a wasted year,” he said aloud.

Then he turned and looked round the empty room. It seemed curiously deserted now.

“And the year is not yet ended,” he added. He was amazed at the pleasure the thought gave him.