The pale yellow sun sang of it: Marvelous Door Opposite!--it seemed to sing--how, when they pass that portal, the commonplace becomes the unusual and reality is turned into romance. Lead becomes silver then, and copper--gold. Magical Door Opposite! All the possibilities of life--aye, and what is better, all life's impossibilities--are behind you, and all life's fears and hopes before. All our young dreams, our mature ambitions, our old regrets, curl in incense from our brains and struggle to pass that keyhole. Unhappy he for whom the door never opens; more unhappy, often, he for whom it does open; but most unhappy he who never sees that it is there: the Door across the Landing. Cartaret knocked as if he were knocking at the gate of Paradise, and, perhaps again as if he were knocking at the gate of Paradise, he got no answer. He knocked a second time and heard the rustle of a woman's skirt. "Who is there?"--She spoke in French now, but he would have known her voice had she talked the language of Grand Street. "Cartaret," he answered. She opened the door. A ray of light beat its way through a grimy window in the hall to welcome her--Cartaret was sure that no light had passed that window for years and years--and rested on the beauty of her pure face, her calm eyes, her blue-black hair. "Good morning," said the Lady of the Rose. It sounded wonderful to him. When _he_ replied "Good morning"--and could think of nothing else to say--the phrase sounded less remarkable. She waited a moment. She looked a little doubtful. She said: "You perhaps wanted Chitta?" Were her eyes laughing? Her lips were serious, but he was uncertain of her eyes. "Certainly not," said he. "Oh, you wanted me?" "Yes!" said Cartaret, and blushed at the vehemence of the monosyllable. "Why?" For what, indeed, had he come there? He vividly realized that he should have prepared some excuse; but, having prepared none, he could offer only the truth--or so much of it as seemed expedient. "I wanted to see if you were all right," he said. "But certainly," she smiled. "I thank you, sir; but, yes, I am--all right." She said no more; Cartaret felt as if he could never speak again. However, speak he must. "Well, you know," he said, "I hadn't seen you anywhere about, and I was rather worried." "Chitta takes of me the best care." "Yes, but, you see, I didn't know and I--Oh, yes: I wanted to see whether that turpentine worked." "The turpentine!" All suspicion of amusement fled her eyes: she was contrite. "I comprehend. How careless of Chitta not at once to have returned it to you."