Miss Anson glanced at the proffered card. The name it bore--_Mr. George Corby_--was unknown to her, but the blood rose to her languid cheek. “Hand me my Mechlin cap, Katy,” she said, trembling a little, as she laid aside her walking stick. She put her cap on before the mirror, with rapid unsteady touches. “Did you draw up the library blinds?” she breathlessly asked. She had gradually built up a wall of commonplace between herself and her illusions, but at the first summons of the past filial passion swept away the frail barriers of expediency. She walked down-stairs so hurriedly that her stick clicked like a girlish heel; but in the hall she paused, wondering nervously if Katy had put a match to the fire. The autumn air was cold and she had the reproachful vision of a visitor with elderly ailments shivering by her inhospitable hearth. She thought instinctively of the stranger as a survivor of the days when such a visit was a part of the young enthusiast’s itinerary. The fire was unlit and the room forbiddingly cold; but the figure which, as Miss Anson entered, turned from a lingering scrutiny of the book-shelves, was that of a fresh-eyed sanguine youth clearly independent of any artificial caloric. She stood still a moment, feeling herself the victim of some anterior impression that made this robust presence an insubstantial thing; but the young man advanced with an air of genial assurance which rendered him at once more real and more reminiscent. “Why this, you know,” he exclaimed, “is simply immense!” The words, which did not immediately present themselves as slang to Miss Anson’s unaccustomed ear, echoed with an odd familiarity through the academic silence. “The room, you know, I mean,” he explained with a comprehensive gesture. “These jolly portraits, and the books--that’s the old gentleman himself over the mantelpiece, I suppose?--and the elms outside, and--and the whole business. I do like a congruous background--don’t you?” His hostess was silent. No one but Hewlett Winsloe had ever spoken of her grandfather as “the old gentleman.” “It’s a hundred times better than I could have hoped,” her visitor continued, with a cheerful disregard of her silence. “The seclusion, the remoteness, the philosophic atmosphere--there’s so little of that kind of flavor left! I should have simply hated to find that he lived over a grocery, you know.--I had the deuce of a time finding out where he _did_ live,” he began again, after another glance of parenthetical enjoyment. “But finally I got on the trail through some old book on Brook Farm. I was bound I’d get the environment right before I did my article.” Miss Anson, by this time, had recovered sufficient self-possession to seat herself and assign a chair to her visitor. “Do I understand,” she asked slowly, following his rapid eye about the room, “that you intend to write an article about my grandfather?”