BELLAIR reached New York on a mid-May morning from the west, and walked up Seventh avenue to his old room. It was a time of day that he had seldom known the street and step. There was a different expression of daylight upon them. Of course, he had met these matters on many Sundays, but Sunday light and atmosphere was invariably different to his eyes--something foreign and false about it. He saw the old hall-mark, however, in the vestibule--the partial sweeping.... It had always been her way; all things a form. The vestibule and stone steps had to be swept--that was the law; to be swept with strength and thoroughness was secondary. He rang, and asked the servant for the woman of the house. Waiting, he found himself in a singular depression of mind. The City had cramped and bewildered him. A small oval of grey-white cloud appeared in the dark hall. It came nearer, and Bellair saw the face of dusty wax--smaller, a little lower from his eyes. It came very near, and was upturned. The vision was dim, and the memory; all the passages slow and cluttered. “It is Mr. Bellair,” she said, without offering her hand. “Yes. I’ve come back.” “I haven’t a room--for you.” “Oh, I’m sorry.” “And about your things in storage--I would be glad for the space now. Could you take care of this to-day?’ “Yes,” he answered. “I have the bill ready.”... She called the servant who came with the broom. “On my table among the papers you will find Mr. Bellair’s bill for storage. Please get it.” Bellair heard the servant on the stairs, one, two, three flights; then a long silence. He had never been quite sure where the landlady slept, believing that she hovered from basement to sky-light according to the ebb and flow of the tenant tides. The double-doors from the hall to the lower front room were slightly ajar. This, the most expensive in the house, appeared to be vacant. The servant was gone a long time. The landlady did not leave him alone in the hall. They did not speak. The darkness crept upon Bellair as if he were in a tank that was slowly but surely being filled, and presently would cover him. The paper was brought, the charge for six months’ storage, meagre. Bellair paid it, and offered more. He thought of her hard life, but the extra money was passed back to him. “I have that present in keeping,” she said. “What present?” “That you gave me the night you went away----” “But I gave it to you. Would you not take a little gift from one who had been in your house five years?” “Money easily got, goes the same,” she answered. Then Bellair realised how stupid he had been. She had seen the newspapers. She had been afraid to trust him alone in that bare hall. The smell of carpets stifled him. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “But hold the present a little longer. Perhaps you will not always feel that it came so easily. I’ll send for my goods at once.... Good-bye.” “Good-bye, Mr. Bellair.”