For some moments he sat there wondering what sort of an anchorage Beatrice had found. Such a book could not have been written in a hurry nor in unpleasant surroundings. He had never heard from her. At first he had been too heavy of heart to care. But as the months, growing into years, had somewhat healed his hurts, he had often thought of her. But not knowing exactly what sort of memories she held of him, he had felt that if the long silence was to be broken, it should be done by her. He was glad she had cared enough to do it. He swung his chair around to the table and wrote to her. There was praise of the book and thanks for the remembrance. In a few paragraphs he gave a whimsical description of his bachelor establishment and of his work, and asked news of her. He addressed it in care of her publishers, a London house. A few days later her answer came to him at breakfast-time. His letter had caught her in London, where she had come over from Normandy to arrange about her new novel. Could he not come up to town during the few days she would be there? If he wired, she would let everything else slip to keep the appointment. He sent the gardener out with a telegram and went up on an afternoon train. It was tea time when he found her in the parlor of her hotel. "I hope I haven't begun to show my age, as you have," she greeted him. "You haven't." She had both hands busy with the tea things, so he could find no opportunity to be more gallant. "I see by your note," she said,--"is it two lumps and cream or three and lemon?--that you did not follow my advice." "No, not exactly. Two lumps, please. I tried to. I've often wondered if you realized what irresponsible and dangerous advice it was." So he told her about Yetta. "I never thought she'd be such an idealistic idiot," Beatrice commented. "Of such are the Kingdom of Heaven." "Walter, I believe you were in love with her and did not have the sense to say so." He waved his hands as a Spaniard does when saying, "_Quien sabe?_" "What's your news?" he asked. She told him of the charming little village she had discovered in Normandy, of her roses and poppies and of her big writing-room, which overlooked three separate backyards and gave her endless opportunity--when the ink did not flow smoothly--to study the domestic life of her neighbors. What fun it was to write! How happy she was to get back to it again! Altogether she was going to write ten novels, each one was to be an improvement, and the last one really good. And then the Sweet Chariot was going to swing low and carry her home.