Before the door an old negro swept away the falling snow with a worn and stubby broom. He did not hear the approach of Philip, for he was deaf and the snow muffled the sound of footsteps. It was only when Philip said "Good-morning" that he turned his head and, grinning, said, "You must be Mr. Downes."
"Yes."
"The room's all ready for you."
The old man, muttering to himself, led the way. At the top of the stairs, he said, "If I'd knowed you was a-comin' I'd a-had a fire."
The place was all swept and in order and in one corner stood all the things which Mary Conyngham had carried there from Krylenko's room. The sight of them touched him with emotion, as if something of Mary herself clung to them. He wanted to see her more than he wanted anything in the world. He stood looking out of the window while the old nigger waited, watching him. He was sure that in some way she could wipe out the sickening memory of that awful scene. The window gave out over the Mills, which lay spread out, cold and desolate and silent, save for the distant K section, where smoke had begun to drift from the chimneys. He would paint the scene from this window, in all its dreary bleakness—in grays and whites and cold blues, with the faintest tinge of pink. It was like a hell in which the fires had suddenly burned to cold ashes. No, he must see Mary. He had to see her. He couldn't go on like this. It wasn't possible for any human creature to be thirsty for so long—thirsty for peace and honesty and understanding.
He began to see himself in the mawkish light of one who suffered and was put upon, and what had been
