ness. Sorrell's melancholy eyes reproached him, for Roland looked so strong and fresh and unhurried, a man who had time to play and read, but who did not trouble to observe.
"No,—I suppose not" was all he said; "but things change, Stephen."
"And people" Sorrell added to himself.
The rush of visitors quickened, and the crowd was increased by a number of Americans who came to visit the birthplace of one of their great men.
To Sorrell it seemed that he had reached the crisis of his struggle. He toiled like Sisyphus, but unlike the man of myth, he pushed and heaved his rock to its objective. He panted and sweated; sometimes his shirt was so wet that he had to go and change it. And the luggage became alive; malignantly alive; it played tricks with him, it resisted, it hurt him, jammed his fingers or bruised his shoulder. Once or twice he fell, and lay clutching some gloating burden, rolling with it on the floor, or in some dark corner on the stairs. He tried dragging the things up by the handles, till Buck caught him at it, and hectored him.
"Here, nice for the new carpets. That ain't the way to handle baggage, my lad. Hump it."
Sorrell flared.
"Why don't you give me a hand,—you"
"Now,—no sauce. If you can't do the job, my lad,—you say so."
And he stood and watched Sorrell shoulder a trunk and stagger with it up the stairs.
It happened that a gentlewoman arrived one day in a car like a "Cunarder." It kad a super-trunk strapped behind it. The lady came into the lounge and was met by the head-porter.
The lady wanted a "suite."
But she took the room, and ordered her luggage to be sent up at once.
Sorrell was unstrapping the super-trunk, a vast black thing, bound with iron and plastered with labels, when Buck came out.
