"You _are_ cold," she said. "Sit down by the fire. I'll poke it up a bit. Just for a few minutes, and then you must go. I wonder if the racket alarmed the servants. You see, I am the only person in this part of the house, Mr. Van Pycke." He looked up from the grate, over which he was holding his hands. "By the way, why are you not in bed? I distinctly remember you said good night--and started." She hesitated. "I wasn't sleepy," she said. "On the other hand, I slept very soundly," he said. "Have you been down here all this time?" "Since twelve o'clock. I love a grate fire." "Won't you sit down? Do." "No, thank you. I'll wait till you have gone. If I sit down now, you'll stay, I'm afraid." He moved the big chair and drew up another for himself beside it. She watched the proceedings without approval or resentment. When the two chairs stood side by side before the fender, he motioned for her to sit down. She was now gazing at him fixedly, a somewhat detached smile on her lips. After a moment she shrugged her shoulders and sat down. He promptly dropped into the other chair and stretched out his feet to the fire. "You said something that surprised me, just as you left me--two hours ago," he remarked, after a long silence. "A year's vacation on full pay," he repeated. "I am Mrs. De Foe's secretary," she said quietly. He turned to look at her. [Illustration: "'I am Mrs. De Foe's secretary,' she said quietly."] "Secretary? I didn't dream of that, Miss Downing." "Have I fallen in your estimation?" she asked, meeting his gaze steadily. "I think you've risen," he said slowly. "You may not remember me, but I crossed on the steamer with you from Liverpool when I was eight years old. You were eleven, I think you said. I was a very pretty little girl. You said that, too. Do you remember?" He was cudgeling his brain. "I can't say that I do, to be perfectly candid. Still, I've been wondering where I've seen you. I recall the voyage, but as for little girls, I remember but one. Ah, she was a little beauty. I was so desperately in love with her that I dare say I had thoughts or eyes for no one else. I'm sorry." "Do you remember her name?" "Perfectly. It wasn't so long ago, you know. I'm twenty-five. She had a perfectly ungovernable nurse. I was obliged to do my worshiping from a distance. By Jove, that reminds me, her father was put down and out a few years ago in Wall Street. I think he had a stroke of paralysis, or something, poor devil, afterwards. Lost everything. I wonder what has become of her. I never saw her after we landed in New York." "Was her name Pembroke?" He started. "Yes,--Mary Pembroke! You knew her? Why, I believe--" He stared hard. "I am Mary Pembroke," said she, leaning back and smiling. His astonishment was unqualified.