Behind that portal Matthias was working furiously against time, carpentering against the grain that play to discuss which he had lunched at Shanley's; the managerial personage having offered to consider it seriously if certain changes were made. And the playwright was in haste to be quit of the job, not only because he disapproved heartily of the stipulated alterations, but further because he was booked for some weeks in Maine as soon as the revision was finished. Humanly, then, he was little pleased to be warned, through the medium of a knock, that his work was to suffer interruption. He swore mildly beneath his breath, glanced suspiciously at the non-committal door, growled brusque permission to enter, and bent again over the manuscript, refusing to look up until he had pursued a thread of thought to its conclusion, and knotted that same all ship-shape. And when at length he consented to be aware of the young woman on his threshold, waiting in a pose of patience, her eyes wide with doubt and apprehensions, his mind was so completely detached from any thought of Joan that he failed, at first, to recognize her. But the alien presence brought him to his feet quickly enough. "I beg your pardon," he said with an uncertain nod. "You wished to see me about something?" Closing the door, Joan came slowly forward into stronger light. "You don't remember me?" she asked, half perplexed, half wistful of aspect. "But I thought--the other day--at Shanley's--" "But of course I remember you," Matthias interrupted with a constrained smile. "But I wasn't--ah--expecting you--not exactly--you understand." "Oh, yes," Joan replied in subdued and dubious accents--"I understand." She waited a moment, watching narrowly under cover of assumed embarrassment, the signs of genuine astonishment which Matthias felt too keenly to think of concealing. Then she added an uneasy: "Of course...." "Of course!" Matthias echoed witlessly. "You wanted to see me about something," he iterated, wandering. With an effort he pulled himself together. "Won't you sit down--ah--Joan?" "Thank you," said the girl. "But I'm afraid I'm in the way," she amended, dropping back into the old, worn, easy-chair. "Oh, no--I--" The insincerity of his disclaimer was manifest in an apologetic glance toward the manuscript and a hasty thrust of fingers up through his hair. Joan caught him up quickly. "Oh, but I know I am, so I shan't stay," she said, settling herself comfortably. "I only ask a minute or two of your time. You don't mind?" "Mind? Why, I--certainly not." She looked down as if disconcerted by his honest, perplexed, questioning eyes. "I was afraid you might, after--after what's happened--" He fumbled for a cigarette, beginning to feel more calm, less nervous than annoyed. The fact of her unruffled self-possession had at length penetrated his understanding.