The next afternoon, a few moments after Beverly had gone for his drive, Morgan Steele’s card was brought up to Patience. She had imagined that this first call would induce a mild thrill of nerve, but she merely remarked to the butler: “Tell him I will be down in a moment,” walked to the long mirror in the corner, and shook out her violet and white organdie skirts. Her long hair was braided and tied with a lavender ribbon. “I look very well,” she thought, and went downstairs. Steele awaited her in the drawing-room, and, as she entered, was standing with his head thrown back, regarding the medallion of Whyte Peele. She noted anew how well he dressed and carried his clothes. He looked quite at home in the drawing-room of Peele Manor. Her first remark followed in natural sequence,— “How odd not to see you in your shirt sleeves.” He turned with a start and a sudden warmth in his face. “Oh, well, I hope you’ll never see me that way again. How charming you look in that frock and with your hair in that braid! _I_ always imagine _you_ in prim tailor things, with your hair tucked out of sight under a stiff turban. This is lovely. You look like a little girl. Those awful dress reformers should see you.” “It’s a comfort to think that the She-males cannot exterminate the artistic sense. Let us go into the library.” “Is there a large comfortable chair there? These are impressive but unpleasant. Perhaps you would not suspect it, but I love a comfortable chair and a cigar better than anything in life.” “One thing I do suspect—that we shall have to become acquainted all over again. You are not exactly like a fallen angel outside of the office, but you certainly have not patronised me for five minutes.” “Oh, you can take your revenge now and patronise me. Hang the shop! I don’t want to think about it.” In the library he critically inspected every chair, selected one that pleased him, and drawing it to the open window sank into it with a deep sigh of content. Patience gave him permission to smoke, and a moment later he looked so happy that she laughed aloud. “You may laugh,” he said plaintively, “but you have less imagination than I thought if you don’t understand what this is to a man after Park Row. After an hour of that water and your muslin frock, I shall go back as refreshed as if my brain had taken a cold bath.” “I’d fly back to the office this minute if I could. I’ve felt like a bottle of over-charged champagne for two weeks.” “You have the enthusiasm of youth. When you are my age—sixty-five—you will be thankful for the _dolce far niente_ of a colonial manor. This sort of life suits you—you are a born châtelaine. You have lost your tired expression, and are actually stouter. Besides, I want to come up here to see you.” “Will you come often?”