They were now both in a state of unprecedented physical fitness. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. On the fifth day he had ventured speech with her. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. “I want to be your friend,” he said.
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