"She must be unpleasantly wet if she had no carriage." "No carriage, sir: they always come on foot. I think she _is_ a little damp, sir." "Well, let her in; but I don't want the maid. I may as well see her now, I suppose, and end the affair." "Yes, sir." I did not put down my book. My visitor should have a hearing, but not much more: she had sacrificed her womanly claims by her persistent attacks upon my door. Presently Simpson ushered her in. "Miss Grief," he said, and then went out, closing the curtain behind him. A woman--yes, a lady--but shabby, unattractive, and more than middle-aged. I rose, bowed slightly, and then dropped into my chair again, still keeping the book in my hand. "Miss Grief?" I said interrogatively as I indicated a seat with my eyebrows. "Not Grief," she answered--"Crief: my name is Crief." She sat down, and I saw that she held a small flat box. "Not carving, then," I thought--"probably old lace, something that belonged to Tullia or Lucrezia Borgia." But as she did not speak I found myself obliged to begin: "You have been here, I think, once or twice before?" "Seven times; this is the eighth." A silence. "I am often out; indeed, I may say that I am never in," I remarked carelessly. "Yes; you have many friends." "--Who will perhaps buy old lace," I mentally added. But this time I too remained silent; why should I trouble myself to draw her out? She had sought me; let her advance her idea, whatever it was, now that entrance was gained. But Miss Grief (I preferred to call her so) did not look as though she could advance anything; her black gown, damp with rain, seemed to retreat fearfully to her thin self, while her thin self retreated as far as possible from me, from the chair, from everything. Her eyes were cast down; an old-fashioned lace veil with a heavy border shaded her face. She looked at the floor, and I looked at her. I grew a little impatient, but I made up my mind that I would continue silent and see how long a time she would consider necessary to give due effect to her little pantomime. Comedy? Or was it tragedy? I suppose full five minutes passed thus in our double silence; and that is a long time when two persons are sitting opposite each other alone in a small still room. At last my visitor, without raising her eyes, said slowly, "You are very happy, are you not, with youth, health, friends, riches, fame?" It was a singular beginning. Her voice was clear, low, and very sweet as she thus enumerated my advantages one by one in a list. I was attracted by it, but repelled by her words, which seemed to me flattery both dull and bold. "Thanks," I said, "for your kindness, but I fear it is undeserved. I seldom discuss myself even when with my friends." "I am your friend," replied Miss Grief. Then, after a moment, she added slowly, "I have read every word you have written." I curled the edges of my book indifferently; I am not a fop, I hope, but--others have said the same.