Twenty he had left her, and she was twenty still, but the added fraction of an inch made her look very tall, and startled him. There was a mysterious bloom under the luminous pallor of her skin; fathoms more added to the depth of her eyes, and a suggestion of volume to her voice. Nature and heritage had retouched the girlish lips in color and curve, widened the tender Irish eyes, added glow and amplitude to the red-gold hair.... There had only been two women in the world for Jerry Cardinegh, and the other was a memory--the mother. “And who do you suppose is coming to-night, deere?” he asked. There was a silver lining of the Tyrone tongue to all that Jerry said, but it was so subtle and elusive as wholly to defy English letters, save possibly that one word “deere” which he rolled fondly for Noreen, and here and there in the structure of a sentence. “Some of your war-men to relieve Peking again to-night? Who, father?” “Just one. The best and weirdest of them all. He’s on the way home to the States. You met him in Tokyo five years since--after the Japanese had whipped China, and the Triple Alliance had stepped in to gobble the trophies.” The girl stirred the fire in the grate thoughtfully for an instant, then started up in a glad, impatient way. “Routledge-san?” “The same. Now, that’s queer--after five years--I mean, the Japanese title of address--‘Routledge-san.’” “That’s what I used to call him, and I always think of him so. I think of him a great deal. His work in the _Review_ makes me. He is one of very few whom I could welcome gladly--this first home-night with you, father.” She spoke with the old fearless candor that Cardinegh loved. “So you think of Routledge a great deal? And why, deere?” “He sees deeply. His work is illuminating to me. Sometimes I think of him sitting back of his work and smiling because he knows so much that he dares not set down. I think Routledge-san loves Asia--as you, as we--love Ireland, father.” “You could not think about a better man, Noreen,” said Cardinegh. “And so he knows a lot that he doesn’t write for the _Review_? Well, maybe so.... He talks quite as well as he writes--when the spell is on him. I don’t know a man who can clear a mind of all save what he’s tossing into it--like Routledge. And the words seem to twist and work their way deep like burrs--when he leans forward with an idea.” Noreen smiled. “And why has he not been back to London in all these years?” “You have said it--because he loves Asia.” “But he has not been back to America?”