He had
kept his eyes fixed on the table as in a revery, and had scarcely spoken
a word. Miss Wilkeson, in her solemn state opposite the boiled chickens,
was hardly less social.
After dinner, Marcus took to his pipe with a strange sullenness, and
smoked furiously. His two friends, closely regarding him, saw that he
was unhappy, but wisely forbore to make him more unhappy still by
obtruding their condolence on him. The day had been rainy and cold. They
knew that Marcus's spirits were barometrically sensitive to the weather,
like those of most persons who look at it through a window.
They had noticed, as they came home, that he was reading that sweetest
of elegies, the "In Memoriam" of Tennyson. And the two friends thought
that the melancholy weather and the melancholy poem together fully
accounted for the gloom on his brow.
Marcus sat for some minutes meditating. Then he heaved a sigh, which was
distinctly audible to his two friends. Then he left the room without
saying a word, and went up stairs.
Presently he was heard to come down; but, instead of returning to the
little parlor, he went into the street, and closed the door with a sharp
slam.
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