The library door closed softly. She was in the room before he saw her.
He was older and more tired than you could have believed. He stooped in his chair; his long hands rested on his knees, slackly, as they had dropped there. Grey streaks in the curly lock of hair that would fall forward and be a whisker.
His mouth had tightened and hardened. It held out; it refused to become old and tired.
"It's Mary," she said.
"My dear—"
He dragged himself to his feet, making his body very straight and stiff. His eyes glistened; but they didn't smile. Only his eyelids and his mouth smiled. His eyes were different, their blue was shrunk and flattened and drawn back behind the lense.
When he moved, pushing forward the small arm-chair, she saw how lean and stiff he was.
"I've been ill," he said.
"Oh—!"
"I'm all right now."