active and concrete connotation for him now than it had in the classic shades of Harvard, where talk had been rife and living a mere concept.
The Christmas ordeal was over: alone in the rue Truffaut he had thought of the happy family in Aldergrove, sitting on the library floor in a litter of red ribbon and tissue paper and tinsel and chocolates and oranges. For the first time in many years the Marples had not been at the window watching for him and his mother and the black Artelia to cross the snowy path from the little house on the cliff.
The New Year was approaching, and he had drawn up a brand new schedule to take effect on the first of January. The first item was a call on the Casimirs, of whom he had seen much less than he might have done, in view of their consistent cordiality. Casimir still thought of him as an inspired critic; and his "good spouse" still seemed to suspect the lurking presence of a million dollar bill. It's my grand manner, thought Grover.
His proposed visit had a double purpose: first, it would be a New Year's compliment; second, it would be a fitting occasion on which to offer for the painter's criticism a selection of his drawings.
Taking the precaution to set out early in the afternoon, that he might arrive in advance of other visitors, he had the good luck to find Casimir alone.
"My wife went out to distribute foolish gifts among her foolish friends," he explained. "Your flowers will
