His voice had grown suddenly very soft, and he spoke with the simplicity of old age.
His eyes looked out into the distance, their brightness veiled with a strange tenderness. Felicia was touched, felt strongly drawn to him. She lost sense of the scholar of profound learning in that of the old man leaning on his son's strong arm. And the son's manhood grew in her eyes as the father's waned.
“It is not many men,” he continued musingly, “that would have given up a Christmas vacation and come all this way just to see an old, broken-down fellow like me.”
Felicia stared out of the window, but she no longer saw the snow.
“You must miss him dreadfully.”
“I always do. We are much together in Oxford. He always gives me at least a few minutes of his day.”
“How good of him. It must be beautiful for you.”
“A great happiness—yes, a great happiness!”
He too was looking out of the window, by Felicia's side, his hands behind his back, and likewise saw nothing. A spell of wistfulness was over them both—bound them unconsciously together.
“A tender-hearted fellow,” said the old man. “Wonderfully sympathetic.”