Wilson felt at once the harmony of beautiful things that have lived long together without obtrusions of ugliness or change.

It was none of Alexander's doing, of course; those warm consonances of color had been blending and mellowing before he was born.

But the wonder was that he was not out of place there,--that it all seemed to glow like the inevitable background for his vigor and vehemence.

He sat before the fire, his shoulders deep in the cushions of his chair, his powerful head upright, his hair rumpled above his broad forehead.

He sat heavily, a cigar in his large, smooth hand, a flush of after-dinner color in his face, which wind and sun and exposure to all sorts of weather had left fair and clear-skinned.
"You are off for England on Saturday, Bartley, Mrs.Alexander tells me." "Yes, for a few weeks only.