"My father will be home very soon, Mr. Sault. Won't you please sit down?" As he chose a chair with some deliberation it occurred to her that she would find a difficulty in explaining to the fastidious Dr. Merville, why she had invited this man to await him in the drawing-room. Strangely enough, she herself felt the capacity of entertaining and being entertained by the visitor and she had no such spasm of dismay as had come to her, when other, and more presentable, visitors, had settled themselves for a lengthy call. This fact puzzled her. Ambrose Sault was--an artisan perhaps, a messenger, more likely. The shabbiness of his raiment and the carelessness of his attire suggested some menial position. One waistcoat button had been fastened into the wrong buttonhole, the result was a little grotesque. "Have you been working very long, with my father?" she asked. "No--not a very long time," he said. "Moropulos and Steppe know him better than I." He checked himself. She knew that he would not talk any more about his associates and the enigma which their companionship presented would remain unsolved, so far as he could give a solution. "Moropulos"--"Steppe"? He spoke as an equal. Even Ronnie was deferential to Mr. Steppe and was in awe of him. Her father made no attempt to hide his nervousness in the presence of that formidable person. Yet this man could dispense with the title. It was not bravado on his part, the conscious impertinence of an underling, desirous of asserting his equality. Obviously, he thought of Mr. Steppe as "Steppe". What would he call her father? No occasion arose, but she was certain he would have been "Merville" and no more. Sault's eyes were settled on her, absorbing her; yet his gaze lacked offence, being without hostility, or notable admiration. She had a ridiculous sensibility of praise. So he might have looked upon Naples from the sea, or upon the fields of narcissi above Les Avants, or the breath-taking loveliness of the hills of Monticattini in the blue afterlight of sunset. She could not meet his eyes--yet was without discomfort. The praise of his conspection was not human. She laughed, artificially, she thought, and reached out for a book that lay on the table. "We have just returned from Italy," she said. "Do you know Italy at all, Mr. Sault?" "I do not know Italy," he said, and took the book she held to him. "This is rather a wonderful account of Lombardy and its history," she said. "Perhaps you would like to read it?" He turned the leaves idly and smiled at her. She had never seen a man smile so sweetly. "I cannot read," he said simply. She did not understand his meaning for a while thinking that his eyesight was failing. "Perhaps you would care to take it home." He shook his head and the book came back to her.