“I didn’t tell her I was--I didn’t tell her who I was. I thought you would rather I didn’t. I was just nice to her, and she was nice to me.” She hurried away, then, because she wanted to be by herself. For some reason which she could not understand tears were beginning to start from her eyes. Mrs. Baron had not been angry, this time. She had seemed to be ashamed! She did not know that the old gentlewoman looked after her with a startled, almost guilty expression which gave place to swift contrition and tenderness. Mrs. Baron did not descend the stairs. She was about to do so when Mrs. Harrod appeared in the lower hall. “Don’t come down!” called the latter. “I mean to have my visit with you in your sitting-room.” She was climbing the stairs. “I don’t intend to be treated like a stranger, even if I haven’t been able to come for such a long time.” Shadows and restraints seemed to be vanishing utterly before that advancing friendly presence. And at the top of the flight of stairs she drew a deep breath and exclaimed: “Emily Boone, _who_ is that child?” She took both Mrs. Baron’s hands and kissed her. “I told the colonel I simply wouldn’t go by without stopping. He had an idea we ought to go to see--what’s the name of the play? I can’t remember. It gave me a chance to stop. I seem never to have the opportunity any more. But do tell me. About the child, I mean. Do you know, I’ve never seen such a perfect little human being in my life! She’s so lovely, and so honest, and so unspoiled. _Who_ is she?” Mrs. Baron felt many waters lift and pass. Bonnie May hadn’t done anything scandalous, evidently. And here was her old friend as expansive, as cheerfully outspoken as in the days of long ago. She found herself responding happily, lightly. “A little protégée of Victor’s,” she said. “You know what a discoverer he is?” They had entered the sitting-room. Mrs. Baron was thinking again how good it was to have the old bond restored, the old friend’s voice awaking a thousand pleasant memories. But as Mrs. Harrod took a seat she leaned forward without a pause. “Now do tell me about that--that cherub of a child,” she said. In the meantime, Victor Baron was experiencing something like a surprise to discover that Thornburg, the manager, seemed a new, a different, sort of person, now that he was in his own home. He had quite the air of--well, there was only one word for it, Baron supposed--a gentleman. The Thornburg home was quite as nice, even in the indefinable ways that count most, as any home Baron was acquainted with. There was an impression of elegance--but not too much elegance--in the large reception-room. There was a general impression of softly limited illumination, of fine yet simple furniture. The walls had a kind of pleasant individuality, by reason of the fact that they were sparsely--yet attractively--ornamented.