Half an hour later, with eager palpitating heart Edith gazed out of the window at a pair of figures coming up the steps. Horace was leading a small curly-headed boy, to whom he was talking nervously in that tone of eager and would-be cheerfulness in which parents seek to ingratiate themselves in order to overcome the inflexible judgment of a child. Leslie said nothing; he was using enormous self-control, but it did not reach to speech. That morning his beloved tutor had been spirited away--a whim of this new invisible monster. Who knew how soon his Aunt Etta, or even his father himself, would follow, and he (Leslie) would be left without protection or assistance, face to face with the unendurable? His father’s words fell upon his ears like the well-meaning patter of a nursery rhyme. Talking made no difference; it could not cover up the fact that they were going to see Her, and that she lived--this crushing monster of iniquity--in this very house whose stiff and odious steps they were now climbing. There were flower-boxes in the windows full of pink geraniums. Leslie was very fond of flower-boxes. He was an imaginative little boy, and he said fiercely to himself: “They are not really flower-boxes, they are pretend boxes, put there like wicked witches pretend to put things in fairy tales to take you in.” Horace cleared his throat. “You will try to be nice to her, won’t you, my boy, for your old father’s sake?” he asked as he rang the bell. This was a mistake; he should have let Leslie ring the bell. Aunt Etta always did. Leslie said so in a tone of ruffled uneasiness. His father apologized but repeated his question. “Oh, yes, I shall be polite!” said Leslie. “Aunt Etta said Lestranges are always polite.” “Well, I hope you’ll be kind too,” said his father. Leslie said nothing; he had not been told that Lestranges are always kind--besides, he was examining the carpet. It was nice and thick, and he thought there were birds on it, but they were not going slowly enough to make sure. A door opened, and in a bower of late spring flowers stood a woman--a tall, dark woman with lips that laughed and eyes that swam in tears, and outstretched hands and a low, sweet voice like music--saying his name very quickly and paying no attention to his father at all. Leslie stopped perfectly still and looked at her. There was no doubt about it, she was worse than a witch--she was an enchantress! He knew no spell to change her back into a snake or a pig. He could only stand and look at her with grave and disapproving eyes, and then hold out his little slender hand with the stately politeness of a well-mannered child--the severest rebuke in Nature.