He was about forty-five, well, although somewhat loudly dressed, and with an air of self-satisfied prosperity pervading his whole personality. He had a heavy gold watch chain and a large seal ring on the hand that lifted his hat. He was bald, with a high, Shaksperian forehead and a halo of sandy curls. His face was ruddy and weak, but good-natured: his eyes were large and blue, and he had a little straw-colored moustache, with a juvenile twist and curl in it. Cecily did not recognize him, yet there was something vaguely familiar about him. She walked rapidly up to the house. In the sitting-room she found Lucy Ellen peering out between the muslin window curtains. When the latter turned there was an air of repressed excitement about her. "Who was that man, Lucy Ellen?" Cecily asked. To Cecily's amazement, Lucy Ellen blushed--a warm, Spring-like flood of color that rolled over her delicate little face like a miracle of rejuvenescence. "Didn't you know him? That was Cromwell Biron," she simpered. Although Lucy Ellen was forty and, in most respects, sensible, she could not help simpering upon occasion. "Cromwell Biron," repeated Cecily, in an emotionless voice. She took off her bonnet mechanically, brushed the dust from its ribbons and bows and went to put it carefully away in its white box in the spare bedroom. She felt as if she had had a severe shock, and she dared not ask anything more just then. Lucy Ellen's blush had frightened her. It seemed to open up dizzying possibilities of change. "But she promised--she promised," said Cecily fiercely, under her breath. While Cecily was changing her dress, Lucy Ellen was getting the tea ready in the little kitchen. Now and then she broke out into singing, but always checked herself guiltily. Cecily heard her and set her firm mouth a little firmer. "If a man had jilted me twenty years ago, I wouldn't be so overwhelmingly glad to see him when he came back--especially if he had got fat and bald-headed," she added, her face involuntarily twitching into a smile. Cecily, in spite of her serious expression and intense way of looking at life, had an irrepressible sense of humor. Tea that evening was not the pleasant meal it usually was. The two women were wont to talk animatedly to each other, and Cecily had many things to tell Lucy Ellen. She did not tell them. Neither did Lucy Ellen ask any questions, her ill-concealed excitement hanging around her like a festal garment. Cecily's heart was on fire with alarm and jealousy. She smiled a little cruelly as she buttered and ate her toast. "And so that was Cromwell Biron," she said with studied carelessness. "I thought there was something familiar about him. When did he come home?" "He got to Oriental yesterday," fluttered back Lucy Ellen. "He's going to be home for two months. We--we had such an interesting talk this afternoon. He--he's as full of jokes as ever. I wished you'd been here." This was a fib. Cecily knew it.