Archibald, indeed, was broader and thicker about the neck and shoulders. He had lost the look of youth; the hair on the top of his head was thinner; his eyes were less clear; his fine skin had become redder and coarser in texture.
"I carry great burdens," he replied. "Perhaps I ought not to ask you to share them."
Mark responded instantly, touched by this unexpected solicitude: "I'm all right."
"You might come to us for a week. Betty will nurse you."
"That is impossible. I must finish my book."
"Oh, yes—your book. I am looking forward to reading that. But I wish you would turn your talents to something more serious than fiction. I——"
"Shall we talk about your work?"
Archibald smiled, but Mark fidgeted and frowned, as carefully culled platitudes fell upon his ear. Archibald was indeed strolling placidly down familiar paths to the great festival of Christendom. The very name of Easter had always quickened Mark's pulses. Hitherto he had hastened to the feast, the most joyful of pilgrims. Now he was shut out; or rather, the door stood wide open, but he dared not pass it. The ban lay upon him—and upon how many thousands? His imagination flared, revealing a multitude staring with yearning eyes at tables spread for others. Archibald, in his silky tones, was enumerating celestial joys. His words flowed like a pellucid stream.
"What are you smiling at?" he asked abruptly.
"I beg your pardon," Mark replied, "but you remind me of an alderman reciting to a starving mob the names of the dishes to which he and his corporation are about to sit down."