In the very first stages of their relation Benson had merely tolerated the shabby old man; he rebelled against the anxiety he always felt when Gibbs was not promptly at the office each morning, and there were times when he would have been glad to be rid of him on any terms; but in the end he succumbed to Gibbs. There was no resisting him. He had lived alone all his life, and the general's willingness to fit into his rather empty existence, to be silent or talkative as his mood was, to share his feelings and adopt his point of view, made him more dependent than he realized; but above all he felt the glow of Gibbs's affection, and understood that it was as sincere as any emotion he had ever known, as sincere in its way as his love for himself. From seeing him only at the office, and limiting their intercourse largely to matters of business, he came by degrees to depend more and more upon him for society. Day after day he took him home to dine with him; and this intimacy, as it strengthened, was the very breath of life to Gibbs. The luxury of Benson's well-appointed house and table, the rich wines he was allowed to use in moderation, these, to his pagan soul were the very end and aim of existence. At the office, where only petty concerns were entrusted to him, he was on the whole unobtrusive enough; but in Benson's house, the great man's chosen guest and boon companion, he relaxed and was at home, too. . CHAPTER FORTY-THREE STEPHEN had not been able to believe in the reality of his home going until he was settled in the cab that bore him swiftly across the city. He had made so many trips into New York, that his journey of the night before had not been at all convincing; but the squat ferry-house which he now approached from a tangle of crowded streets was new to him, and with the salt breeze blowing full in his face, and the Jersey river-front brilliant in the sunlight beyond, he could feel that he was really going home, that his college days were over, and belonged to a phase of his experience that he had definitely put behind him. As he hurried aboard the ferry, trim, well built, and more than commonly blessed in the way of good looks, he was jostled by a young fellow carrying a large yellow leather satchel, conspicuously new, who turned with a muttered apology; and Stephen saw a tanned face, the lips partly concealed by a small moustache several shades darker than the shock of bushy red hair inclined to curl, that almost reached the low turned-down linen collar he wore. There was something oddly familiar in the face, which without being in any way handsome, was not unattractive. It might have been merely some trick of expression, but while Stephen was struggling vainly to remember where they could have met before, the crowd separated them. Yet later when he took his place in the line that had formed at the gate, the yellow satchel was just ahead of him.