Jim feels that he is keeping his word handsomely when, not a minute later than nine o'clock, he finds himself knocking at the door of the Le Marchants' apartment--that door with which of late his knuckles have grown so pleasantly and friendlily familiar. It is opened to him by Elizabeth herself, and he follows her silently through the ante-room into the little _salon_. Arrived there, he looks mournfully round with a sort of feeling as of taking farewell of the familiar objects. It is impossible that Elizabeth can have spent the just-past stormy night in gathering flowers, and yet the flowers have a freshened air. She must have been carefully rearranging them. The bits of brocade, too, the Turkish embroideries, the _haiks_, and the praying-carpets, wear a more festal appearance than usual. The little room looks decked as if for a gala. His jealous fancy cannot but admit that Elizabeth herself is dressed in her ordinary morning gown, but even over it some holiday transmutation has passed. He cannot trust himself to verify whether that holiday look is on her face too. "He has come; you know that, I suppose?" "Yes." What a catch in her breath! He must steal a glance at her. She will think it unnatural if he does not; and perhaps his eye may not be offended by so much radiance as he feared. In her voice there was something not very distant from a sob. The result of his glance shows itself in what sounds like a reproach. "I do not believe that you went to bed at all." "Yes, I did! yes, I did!" hurrying away eagerly from the subject of herself, as from something irrelevant and importunate; "and--he--how is he? How does he look? Had not he a dreadful crossing? Does he want to see me? to see me soon? to-day?" There is such a breathless passion in her tone, coupled with something so apologetic for putting her questions to him, that his heart, hitherto half touched, half angered by the pathos of her little preparations, melts wholly towards her. "Of course he wants to see you--wants it very, very much," replies he; and, to his credit, replies without any harshness marring the cordial kindness of his tone. "As much as"--with a rather melancholy smile--"you want to see him. No, do not be angry. Why should not you wish to see each other?" "Oh, there is every reason!" cries she miserably--"the same reason that there always was. But"--with rising agitation--"where is it to be? How soon? When does he wish it?" "He is waiting outside now." She starts painfully. "_Now!_ Oh, poor fellow! we must not keep him waiting; and yet"--stretching out her hand in detention--"tell me, before he comes in--tell me, is he changed? Is he? Is he the same as he was?" Jim hesitates, and the painful perplexity written on his brow is misread by her.