ABSTRACT
O Nce again, at long last, Glover and the Virginian sat opposite each other, a pitcher of hot flip between them with full glasses on hand, Glover rested and shaven, the foxhunter leaner than ever, hollow of cheek, with deep, dark circles under his eyes. Each man saw the change in the other, and each accepted it with new and humble awareness. Some of the down-east cold had gone out of Glover; he had seen men stripped bare to the soul, and it was harder to take, even, than what he had seen at Pell’s Point. As with the foxhunter, he had chosen his road and was determined to walk down it for as long as it went. Both of them the same age, they were as alike in some ways as they were different in others; Glover saw that the aristocrat was gone, and he accepted the fact, sensing if not realizing the strange new pride and purpose in the man sitting across the table from him. They were both lonely men, and even from each other they could take no comfort to ease that loneliness; but in their loneliness they comprehended each other.
