A Candle in the Wind by Mary Imlay Taylor

IT was not until he got a clear look at Arthur Faunce's face under the strong light of the reading-lamp that Dr. Gerry realized the full effect of the crisis, moral and physical, upon the younger man. The old doctor had come in to New York on business connected with his practise, and in the evening, on his way to the station, he had looked up the apartment-house from which Faunce had phoned to him on more than one occasion. He had found him alone, completing his arrangements for the departure of the expedition to the south pole. Faunce had been glad to see him, had furnished some cigars and a light, and the two men sat on opposite sides of the table, both facing the open windows that looked out over a crowded thoroughfare not far from the heart of the city.

Even at this late hour the clamor of traffic came up to them, and the variegated lights of the flashing signs revolved, flashed, and receded and flashed again with all the colors of a kaleidoscope. But the steady light of the lamp on the table revealed Faunce's face, its wasted look, the dark rings under the somber eyes, the drawn lines about the tight lips, the threads of white in the thick, dark hair that still curled slightly on the temples. The doctor's practised eye traveled lower and rested on the lean, blue-veined hand that held the cigar. It was unsteady; even the fingers twitched occasionally.