It drove away the drowsy, thick and thunderous atmosphere of mind.

It had a familiar sound.

Blair's crutch! Presently there was a knock on the door of his room and Blair entered.
Blair, as always, bright of eye, smiling of lip, erect, proud, self-sufficient, inscrutable and sure.

Lane's black demon stole away.
Lane saw that Blair was whiter, thinner, frailer, a little farther on that road from which there could be no turning.
"Hello, old scout," greeted Blair, as he sat down on the bed beside Lane.

"I need you more than any one--but it kills me to see you." "Same here, Blair," replied Lane, comprehendingly.
"Gosh! we oughtn't be so finicky about each other's looks," exclaimed Blair, with a smile.
But neither Lane nor Blair made further reference to the subject.
Each from the other assimilated some force, from voice and look and presence, something wanting in their contact with others.