For all the world he looked like a diminutive drum-major, and Philip rose speechless, his pipe still in his mouth, as his strange visitor closed the door behind him and approached.
"Beg pardon," said the stranger in a smothered voice, walking as though he were ice to the marrow and afraid of breaking himself.

"It's so beastly cold that I have taken the liberty of dropping in to get warm." "It is cold--beastly cold," replied Philip, emphasizing the word.

"It was down to sixty last night.

Take off your things." "Devil of a country--this," shivered the man, unbuttoning his coat.

"I'd rather roast of the fever than freeze to death." Philip limped forward to assist him, and the stranger eyed him sharply for a moment.
"Limp not natural," he said quickly, his voice freeing itself at last from the depths of his coat collar.