Later in the evening Gus said to her: “I do not like Wilbur’s familiarity on so short an acquaintance.”
Edith hesitated a moment before answering: “I do not think it was intentional, Gus, doesn’t he remind you of some other person?”
“Yes; but I can never say who it is.”
They turned to look at him, as he sat talking to Arthur; the contrast between the two was very marked. Arthur was slouchingly leaning over the table; his carelessness of attire, an indefinable coarseness of look and action, contrasted most unfavorably with Wilbur’s refined manner, the neatness of his person, and the high thought written in characters unmistakable upon his countenance; yet the features of Arthur were far more regular, his physique finer.
Edith sighed. Gus answered her thought.
“Yes; he has changed awfully; I doubt his ever being quite himself again.”
“He seems an entirely different person; Mr. Wilbur is much more as Arthur used to be than Arthur himself.”
Gus started in amazement: “By Jove! That is so! Ever since he came it has puzzled me to know who he was like.”
They had been busying themselves over the tea things as they talked, and now brought them forward. As they sipped their tea Gus endeavored to lead the conversation toward Wilbur’s former life, but he plainly evaded the subject. Arthur the whole evening sat moodily gnawing his mustache, or paced the floor restlessly. It was late when Wilbur took his departure.
For a long time Gus could hear Arthur moving about his room, but at last he sank into dreamy slumber, in which Arthur and Wilbur were strangely intermingled, once starting up wide awake as he fancied he heard the hall door close. He lay a few minutes with every nerve quivering, afraid of—he knew not what; then took himself to task for being so foolish, and again dropped off to sleep.