With one last look at Mr. Garrott, Angela turned to open the door for Mr. Manford. The greeting smile succeeded the good-bye reproach. And even in this disturbed moment, the writer's mind was subtly struck with the symbolism of that gesture: and once again this girl was a type to him, sister of a million sisters. Even so, must the womanly Spinster, through all her seeking days, turn from the man who does not desire her little offerings of beauty and charm, to the man who--well, possibly may. And it really wasn't right, wasn't fair.... "Old Sherlock!--sees the Fordette outside--guesses who's at home now!" the man who possibly might was saying, with a tone of buoyant intimacy and a repellent smirk. "I thought you weren't going to forget me altogether!... Oh! And there's Charlie-boy, too! Feeling better, old top?" Charles looked through him in silence. But when Angela drifted by them into the parlor--for she avoided any formal farewell with her former principal friend--and he was passing Donald to the door, he bent and flung into the youth's long ear one futile taunt:-- "Fool, I suppose she lent you the sequel!" * * * * * Before the dingy little house of the Flowers', there stood a line of waiting vehicles. The passer would have said that a reception, or perhaps a wedding, was going on within. To the left, Mr. Tilletts's shining sedan still stood at the broken curb. The driver, having paused to exchange badinage with Walter Taylor, was just mounting to his seat. Full in front of the house stood a conveyance more in character with the unpretentious street: Charles Garrott's aged hackney-coach, in short. On the other side, at the nose of the hack-horse and properly leading the procession, stood the stout little Fordette, resting now from its labors. There only lacked a bicycle for Mr. Jenney, and something--a donkey, let us say--to stand for Donald Manford. And Angela, indeed, had accomplished this; here was her true creative work, here her self-expression made visible. She it was who, poor and obscure, with nobody to help her, had drawn these vehicles and these gentlemen thronging about her door. "Where toe, suh?" cried Walter Taylor, flourishing his whip. "Number 6 Olive Street." The fare spoke all but automatically, out of his new genuine disquiet. However, he corrected himself at once: "No--wait a minute."