To himself, he lay before her as a heap of crumbling and smoke-stained ruin. Every stone cried out for the cleansing power of pity and for the firm and friendly hand that was to rear them all again to their pristine use and comeliness.
The clock had struck eight as he entered; it was striking eleven as he rose to go.
"Not yet," she said, softly. She pressed him back into the depths of his great easy-chair, and, leaning upon its rounded and padded arm, she looked down upon him.
"You take me, then, as I am?" he asked her, soberly.
"How else do you take me?"
He raised his hand to his head. "There will be more of them," he said. "They tell me I shall be white at forty."
"How many of them are mine?"
He pressed her hand.
"Not one, not one! Or, no," he continued, with a stronger pressure, "they are all yours—do with them as you please."
He felt something warm drop on his head and trickle down his temples.