that she had seen him once before, about a year ago, when he had talked with her for a few minutes, very kindly.
“Will you come in here, Jane?” her grandfather’s voice called to her.
Snowdon had changed much. Old age was heavy upon his shoulders, and had even produced a slight tremulousness in his hands; his voice told the same story of enfeeblement. Even more noticeable was the ageing of his countenance. Something more, however, than the progress of time seemed to be here at work. He looked strangely careworn; his forehead was set in lines of anxiety; his mouth expressed a nervousness of which formerly there had been no trace. One would have said that some harassing preoccupation must have seized his mind. His eyes were no longer merely sad and absent, but restless with fatiguing thought. As Jane entered the room he fixed his gaze upon her,—a gaze that appeared to reveal worrying apprehension.
“You remember Mr. Percival, Jane,” he said.
