CHAPTER 5

He had transformed since his New Haven days. Now he was a robust, straw-haired man in his thirties with a rather stern mouth and a condescending manner. Two bright,

arrogant eyes dominated his face, giving him an impression of always leaning aggressively forward. Even the effeminate flair of his riding clothes couldn't conceal the

immense power of his physique—he seemed to fill those gleaming boots to the point where the top lacing strained, and you could see a great mass of muscle shifting with

every movement of his shoulder beneath his thin coat. It was a body capable of tremendous leverage—a brutal body.

His speaking voice, a gruff, husky tenor, contributed to the impression of irritability he

gave off. There was a hint of paternal disdain in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had loathed him.

"Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to imply, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior

Society, and although we were never close, I always felt that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with a kind of harsh, defiant yearning.

We chatted for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

"I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes darting around restlessly.

Turning me by one arm, he gestured with a broad, flat hand across the front view, encompassing a sunken Italian garden, a half-acre of deep, fragrant roses, and a stubby motorboat bobbing offshore.