'Who is it?' asked Selwyn.
'A Mr. Watson, sir.'
'I wonder if it can be Doug Watson of Cambridge. Bring him right up.'
A moment later a young man entered the cosily shaded room, and they met with the hearty hand-clasp and the sincere good-feeling which come when a man who is abroad meets a friend who is a fellow-countryman. The new-comer was younger than Selwyn, and though of lighter complexion and hair, was unmistakably American in appearance. Like the author, he was clean-shaven, but there was more repose in the features. His face was broad, and in the poise of his head and thick neck there was the clear impression of great physical and mental driving-power. Although still a student, the mark of the engineer was strongly stamped on him. He was of the type that spans a great river with a bridge; that glories in the overcoming of obstacles by sheer domination of will.
'Well, Doug,' said Selwyn as they drew their chairs up to the fire, 'when did you leave Cambridge?'
'Last week,' said the other. 'I couldn't stand it any longer with every one gone. I don't think that one of the bunch I played around with is there now.'
'That was a bully week-end I had with you at the university.'
'We sure had a good time, didn't we?'
'But how did you know I was here?'
'Jarvis sent me a note that he and his wife were running hack to New
York, and that you were taking his rooms. Damn fine place, isn't it?
There's a woman's touch all over here. But you're looking precious
seedy.'