wing. Then at list, on a
Friday, came the dreaded, expected letter: 'He is gone! He died early
this morning, without pain, conscious almost to the end. He mentioned
several friends by name, you among them, during the night. The funeral
is to be on Tuesday. You will be here, of course.'

Sad and memorable day! By an untoward chance it fell in Commemoration
week, and Robert found the familiar streets teeming with life and noise,
under a showery, uncertain sky, which every now and then would send
the bevies of lightly gowned maidens, with their mothers, and their
attendant squires, skurrying for shelter, and leave the roofs and
pavements glistening. He walked up to St. Anselm's, found as he expected
that the first part of the service was to be in the chapel, the rest
in the cemetery, and then mounted the well-known staircase to Langham's
rooms. Langham was apparently in his bedroom. Lunch was on the
table--the familiar commons, the familiar toast-and-water. There, in
a recess, were the same splendid wall maps of Greece he had so often
consulted after lecture. There was the little case of coins, with
the gold Alexanders he had handled with so much covetous reverence at
eighteen. Outside, the irregular quadrangle with its dripping trees
stretched before him; the steps of the new Hall, now the shower was
over, were crowded with gowned figures. It might have been yesterday
that he had stood in that room, blushing with awkward pleasure under Mr.
Grey's first salutation.

The bedroom door opened and Langham came in.

'Elsmere! But of course I expected you.'

His voice seemed to Robert curiously changed. There was a flatness
in it, an absence of positive cordiality which was new to him in any
greeting of Langham's to himself, and had a chilling effect upon him.
The face, too, was changed. Tint and expression were both dulled; its
marble-like sharpness and finish had coarsened a little, and the figure,
which had never possessed the erectness of youth had now the pinched
look and the confirmed stoop of the valetudinarian.

'I did not write to you, Elsmere,' he said immediately, as though in
anticipation of what the other would be sure to say; 'I knew nothing but
what the bulletins said, and I was told that Cathcart wrote to you. It
is many years now since I have seen much of Grey. Sit down and have some
lunch. We have time, but not too much time.'

Robert took a few mouthfuls. Langham was difficult, talked
disconnectedly of