It was a clear day; the rooms had large windows; and the
light streaming in took from them all the comfort which they
acquired under gaslight: the carpets were faded, the rugs were worn
out and lay in the wrong places. It was seen to be a desolate
place for a desolated life.
"How are you, Rowan?" he said, speaking as though he had seen him
the day before, and taking no note of changes in his appearance.
Without further words he led the way into his sitting room and
seated himself in his leather chair.
"Will you smoke?"
They had often smoked as they sat thus when business was before
them, or if no business, questions to be intimately discussed about
life and character and good and bad. Rowan did not heed the
invitation, and the Judge lighted a cigar for himself. He was a
long time in lighting it, and burned two or three matches at the
end of it after it was lighted, keeping a cloud of smoke before his
eyes and keeping his eyes closed. When the smoke rose and he lay
back in his chair, he looked across at the young man with the eyes
of an old lawyer who had drawn the truth out of the breast of many
a criminal by no other command than their manly light. Rowan sat
before him without an effort at composure. There was something
about him that suggested a young officer out of uniform, come home
with a browned face to try to get himself court-martialled. He
spoke first:
"I have had Isabel's letter, and I have come to tell you.
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