(_Thoughtfully._) He was in a pretty passion when he wrote that—and I have not seen him since. I hope he will come to-morrow. He used to think Mattie Montgomery was a doll of a thing. Perhaps he will tell her that I am a—no, he won’t. Whatever I am, I’m not a doll of a thing, and he knows it. (_Looks at the two letters side by side._) How amusing one’s old flirtations look in the light of a new and serious reality—for I have made up my mind what to say to Dr. Tennant. It will be rather good fun to tell Harold of it confidentially to-morrow. I will drop it in his tea with a lump of sugar. (_Glances at clock._) After four o’clock. Well, I must go and make myself fascinating and give orders that Dr. Tennant and I are not to be disturbed. We may as well begin to get used to _tête-à-têtes_. (_Exit after putting the letters under a book, out of sight._) _Enter_ HAROLD WHITNEY. _He seems disturbed._ _H._ This is certainly confoundedly odd. I expected to find fifty other people here at least, and Esther in her best gown receiving them. I can’t have mistaken the hour. It is some time after four. There is certainly a mistake somewhere, however, and under the circumstances it is likely to be a particularly awkward one. I would walk a good mile and a half to avoid a _tête-à-tête_ with Esther Van Dyke. Because I have been fool enough after four years to remember the color of her eyes, I don’t care to have her know it and see it. I would leave now, like the historic Arab, if I hadn’t been such an ass as to give my card to the servant, and Esther has seen it by this time. I would rather face the music than give her the pleasure of laughing at me for running away. But what does it mean? I must—the blood curdles in my veins at the thought—I must have mistaken the day! The Fate which I have felt dogging my footsteps from the cradle has at last laid hold upon me! I have dreamed of getting to a place the day before I was asked. I have loitered irresolutely on door-mats. I have gone slowly by and watched until I saw another carriage go in, but I have never _done_ it before. And to have come to Esther Van Dyke’s after four years, and such a parting, a day too soon! My bitterest foe would find it in his heart to pity me now. What can I do? (_Walks around the room and fingers things restlessly._) I might go off with the spoons to divert suspicion. I would rather be arrested as a professional burglar, entering the house under false pretences, than witness Esther’s smile when she comes to a realizing sense of what I have done. Professional burglars probably retain their self-respect. There is no reason why they shouldn’t. The date of _their_ visit is not fixed by invitation. But, confound it! there won’t be any spoons until to-morrow. Perhaps she won’t know I have come a day too soon—but she always did know things—that was the kind of person she was. (_Takes up a book from the table._) I might read to compose my mind.