He fitted the key in the lock;
the sound of its turning made music in his ears, and, setting his foot
upon the sill, he was a man for whom that little was enough. Nicholas
Oldfield was at home.
He laid down his bag, and went, without an instant's pause, straight
through to the sitting-room, and stood before the tall eight-day clock.
He put his hand on the woodwork, as if it might have been the shoulder
of a friend, and looked up understandingly in its face.
"Well, here we be," said he. "You'd ha' hil' out till mornin',
though."
For wherever he might travel, he always made it a point to be home in
time to wind the clocks; and however early he might hurry away again,
under stress of some antiquarian impulse, they were left alive and
pulsing behind him. There was one in each room, besides the tall
eight-day in the parlor, and they were all soft-voiced and leisurely,
reminiscent of another age than ours. Though three of them had been
inherited, it almost seemed as if Nicholas must have selected the
entire company, so harmonious were they, so serenely fitted to the calm
decorum of his own desires.
In half an hour he had accomplished many things, and his fire sent a
spiral breath toward heaven.
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