Four strangers grounded their cues long enough to shake his hand.

"Mr.Nesbit,--Sturgeon--Herr Kempner--Herr Teppich,"-- he bowed stiffly to each, ran the battery of their inspection, and found himself saluting three other persons at the end of the room, under a rosy, moon-bellied lantern.

A gray matron, stout, and too tightly dressed for comfort, received him uneasily, a dark-eyed girl befriended him with a look and a quiet word, while a tall man, nodding a vigorous mop of silver hair, crushed his hand in a great bony fist.
"Mrs.Earle," Heywood was saying, "Miss Drake, and--how are you, padre ?--Dr.Earle." "Good-evening," boomed the giant, in a deep and musical bass.

"We are very glad, very glad." His voice vibrated through the room, without effort.

It struck one with singular force, like the shrewd, kind brightness of his eyes, light blue, and oddly benevolent, under brows hard as granite.