He turned in at Clarendon--shivering a little at the prospect. He was beginning to appreciate what a winter spent under such conditions meant, where one's enjoyments and recreations are circumscribed by the bounds of comparatively few houses and few people--people, he suspected, who could not understand what he missed, of the hurly-burly of life and amusement, even if they tried. Their ways were sufficient for them; they were eminently satisfied with what they had; they could not comprehend dissatisfaction in another, and would have no patience with it. He could imagine the dismalness of Hampton, when contrasted with the brightness of Northumberland. The theatres, the clubs, the constant dinners, the evening affairs, the social whirl with all that it comprehended, compared with an occasional dinner, a rare party, interminable evenings spent, by his own fireside, alone! Alone! Alone! To be sure, Miss Carrington, and Miss Borden, and Miss Lashiel, and Miss Tilghman, would be available, when they were home. But the winter was when they went visiting, he remembered, from late November until early April, and, at that period, the town saw them but little. There was the Hampton Club, of course, but it was worse than nothing--an opportunity to get mellow and to gamble, innocent enough to those who were habituated to it, but dangerous to one who had fallen, by adversity, from better things.... However, Macloud would be there, shortly, thank God! And the dear girls were not going for a week or so, he hoped. And, when the worst came, he could retire to the peacefulness of his library and try to eke out a four months' existence, with the books, and magazines and papers. Moses held open the door, with a bow and a flourish, and the lights leaped out to meet him. It was some cheer, at least, to come home to a bright house, a full larder, faithful servants--and supper ready on the table, and tuned to even a Clubman's taste. "Moses, do you know if Miss Carrington's at home?" he asked, the coffee on and his cigar lit. "Yass, seh! her am home, seh, I seed she herse'f dis mornin' cum down de parf from de front poach wid de dawg, seh." Croyden nodded and went across the hall to the telephone. Miss Carrington, herself, answered his call.--Yes, she intended to be home all evening. She would be delighted to see him and to hear a full account of himself. He was rather surprised at his own alacrity, in finishing his cigar and changing his clothes--and he wondered whether it was the girl, or the companionship, or the opportunity to be free of himself? A little of all three, he concluded.... But, especially, the _girl_, as she came from the drawing-room to meet him. "So you have really returned," she said, as he bowed over her slender fingers. "We were beginning to fear you had deserted us." "You are quite too modest," he replied. "You don't appreciate your own attractions." The "you" was plainly singular, but she refused to see it.