Guildea was sitting in an armchair, before a small fire. His thin, long-fingered hands lay outstretched upon his knees, his head was sunk down on his chest. He appeared to be pondering deeply. Pitting very slightly raised his voice.
"Father Murchison to see you, sir," he repeated.
The Professor jumped up rather suddenly and turned sharply round as the Father came in.
"Oh," he said. "It's you, is it? Glad to see you. Come to the fire."
The Father glanced at him and thought him looking unusually fatigued.
"You don't look well to-night," the Father said.
"No?"
"You must be working too hard. That lecture you are going to give in Paris is bothering you?"
"Not a bit. It's all arranged. I could deliver it to you at this moment verbatim. Well, sit down."
The Father did so, and Guildea sank once more into his chair and stared hard into the fire without another word. He seemed to be thinking profoundly. His friend did not interrupt him, but quietly lit a pipe and began to smoke reflectively. The eyes of Guildea were fixed upon the fire. The Father glanced about the room, at the walls of soberly bound books, at the crowded writing-table, at the windows, before which hung heavy, dark-blue curtains of old brocade, at the cage, which stood between them. A green baize covering was thrown over it. The Father wondered why. He had never seen Napoleon—so the parrot was named—covered up at night before. While he was looking at the baize, Guildea suddenly jerked up his head, and, taking his hands from his knees and clasping them, said abruptly: