"Far from it," Lindsay reassured her. "I'm afraid, though, I've been working too long in the hot sun this morning." "Like as not!" the little old lady agreed briskly. "I guess you're hungry too," she hazarded. "Now you just get up and lay in the hammock and I'm going to make you some lunch. I see there was some eggs there and milk and tea. I'll have you some scrambled eggs fixed in no time. My name is Spash--Mrs. Spash." "My name is Lindsay--David Lindsay." Lindsay found himself submitting without a murmur to the little old lady's program. He lay quiescent in the hammock and let the tides of vitality flow back.... Mrs. Spash's prophecy, if anything, underestimated her energy. In an incredibly short time she had produced, in collaboration with the oil stove, eggs scrambled on bread deliciously toasted, tea of a revivifying heat and strength. "Gee, that tastes good!" Lindsay applauded. He sighed. "It certainly takes a woman!" "What are you doing here?" Mrs. Spash inquired. "Batching it?" "Yes, I think that describes the process," Lindsay admitted. After an instant, "How did you happen to be on the doorstep?" "Well, I don't wonder you ask," Mrs. Spash declared. "I didn't know the Murray place was let and--well, I was making one of my regular visits. You see, I come here often. I'm pretty fond of this old house. I lived here once for years." Lindsay sat upright. "Did you by chance live here when Lutetia Murray was alive?" "Well, I should say I did!" Mrs. Spash answered. "I lived here the last twenty years of Lutetia Murray's life. I was her housekeeper, as you might say." Lindsay stared at her. He started to speak. It was obvious that conflicting comments fought for expression, but all he managed to say--and ineptly enough--was: "Oh, you knew her, then?" "Knew her!" Mrs. Spash seemed to search among her vocabulary for words. Or perhaps it was her soul for emotions. "Yes, I knew her," she concluded with a feeble breathlessness. "You've lived in this house, then, for twenty years," Lindsay repeated, musing. "Yes, all of that." Mrs. Spash appeared to muse also. For an instant the two followed their own preoccupations. Then as though they led them to the same _impasse_, their eyes lifted simultaneously; met. They smiled. "I've bought this house, Mrs. Spash," Lindsay confided. "And you never can guess why." Mrs. Spash started what appeared to be a comment. It deteriorated into a little inarticulate murmur. "I bought it," Lindsay went on, "because when I was in college, I fell in love with Lutetia Murray." And then, at Mrs. Spash's wide-eyed, faded stare, "Not with Miss Murray herself--I never saw her--but with her books. I read everything she wrote and I wrote in college what we call a thesis on her." "Sort of essay or composition," Mrs. Spash defined thesis to herself. "Exactly," Lindsay permitted. "She was--she was--" Mrs. Spash began in a dispassionate sort of way. She concluded in a kind of frenzy. "She was an angel."