"I shall sully the purity of your floor," said he, "but you must
excuse me for once." Then he approached the fire. "I have had hard
work to get here, I assure you," he observed, as he warmed his hands
over the flame. "One drift took me up to the waist; happily the
snow is quite soft yet."

"But why are you come?" I could not forbear saying.

"Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but since you
ask it, I answer simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired
of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I have
experienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-
told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel."

He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and
really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane,
however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had never
seen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled
marble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from
his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow and
cheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace of
care or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he would
say something I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now at
his chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck me
that his hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-for
gush of pity came over my heart: I was moved to say "I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too bad
that you should be quite alone; and you are recklessly rash about
your own health."