At the sound of his voice the cat hoisted her tail, and began to march in narrowing circles about her master’s chair, making gentle observations in the cat language. Gethryn placed a bit of sardine on a fork and held it out, but the little humbug merely sniffed at it daintily, and then rubbed against her master’s hand. He laughed and tossed the bit of fish into the fire, where it spluttered and blazed until the parrot woke up with a croak of annoyance. Gethryn watched the kettle in silence. Faces he could never see among the coals, but many a time he had constructed animals and reptiles from the embers, and just now he fancied he could see a resemblance to a shark among the bits of blazing coal. He watched the kettle dreamily. The fire glowed and flashed and sank, and glowed again. Now he could distinctly see a serpent twisting among the embers. The clock ticked in measured unison with the slow oscillation of the flame serpent. The wind blew hard against the panes and sent a sudden chill creeping to his feet. Bang! Bang! went the blinds. The hallway was full of strange noises. He thought he heard a step on the threshold; he imagined that his door creaked, but he did not turn around from his study of the fire; it was the wind, of course. The sudden hiss of the kettle, boiling over, made him jump and seize it. As he turned to set it down, there was a figure standing beside the table. Neither spoke. The kettle burnt his hand and he set it back on the hearth; then he remained standing, his eyes fixed on the fire. After a while Yvonne broke the silence—speaking very low: “Are you angry?” “Why?” “I don’t know,” said the girl, with a sigh. The silence was too strained to last, and finally Gethryn said, “Won’t you sit down?” She did so silently. “You see I’m—I’m about to do a little cooking,” he said, looking at the eggs. The girl spoke again, still very low. “Won’t you tell me why you are angry?” “I’m not,” began Gethryn, but he sat down and glanced moodily at the girl. “For two weeks you have not been to see me.” “You are mistaken, I have been—” he began, but stopped. “When?” “Saturday.” “And I was not at home?” “And you were at home,” he said grimly. “You had a caller—it was easy to hear his voice, so I did not knock.” She winced, but said quietly, “Don’t you think that is rude?” “Yes,” said Gethryn, “I beg pardon.” Presently she continued: “You and—and he—are the only two men who have been in my room.” “I’m honored, I’m sure,” he answered, drily. The girl threw back her mackintosh and raised her veil. “I ask your pardon again,” he said; “allow me to relieve you of your waterproof.” She rose, suffering him to aid her with her cloak, and then sat down and looked into the fire in her turn. “It has been so long—I—I—hoped you would come.” “Whom were you with in the Luxembourg Gardens?” he suddenly broke out.