It was nearly two years after Atherton's marriage that Halleck one day opened the door of the lawyer's private office, and, turning the key in the lock, limped forward to where the latter was sitting at his desk. Halleck was greatly changed: the full beard that he had grown scarcely hid the savage gauntness of his face; but the change was not so much in lines and contours as in that expression of qualities which we call looks.
“Well, Atherton!”
“Halleck! You!”
The friends looked at each other; and Atherton finally broke from his amaze and offered his hand, with an effect, even then, of making conditions. But it was Halleck who was the first to speak again.
“How is she? Is she well? Is she still here? Have they heard anything from him yet?”
“No,” said Atherton, answering the last question with the same provisional effect as before.
“Then he is dead. That's what I knew; that's what I said! And here I am. The fight is over, and that's the end of it. I'm beaten.”
“You look it,” said Atherton, sadly.
“Oh, yes; I look it. That's the reason I can afford to be frank, in coming back to my friends. I knew that with this look in my face I should make my own welcome; and it's cordial even beyond my expectations.”
“I'm not glad to see you, Halleck,” said Atherton. “For your own sake I wish you were at the other end of the world.”