SON OF THE WIND
"Rather dark, isn't it?" Ferrier inquired. His eyes, black and quick-moving as the little points of shadow, had been darting here and there, trying to discover the unessential that was meant to be hidden. "I suppose we will have the lamp when we begin to play?" He addressed Blanche directly, as if there was no one to be considered besides the two of them.
She sent a smiling look at Carron. "There's plenty of light to see the cards and one another's faces, and that is all we need to see," she said, giving Ferrier her hand.
He took it with an eagerness that was not hidden by his air of the would-be critic. He appeared a sallow, dark, slim young man, rather pretty, trimly built and buttoned into black, his look of lightness and alertness marred by the slight inward bend of the knees. Altogether a facile figure, smooth and easy and but for the small, hawklike nose, mild enough in appearance—a very different figure from the man on the road, a different figure, even, from the man on the drive. Could he have forgotten it all so quickly? His manner was altogether that of an old close friend of the family. Even his uneasiness at the change about him seemed a part of that familiarity.
"Mr. Rader," he asked, "are you going to have a chair by the fire?"
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