Standing beside an empty fireplace, and facing the entrance in attitudes of expectancy, were a young man and woman. In the soft pink lamplight I had an impression of their two astonished faces, or, rather, astonished eyes, for they were making a spirited struggle to obliterate all surprise from their faces. The woman was succeeding the best. She did it quite well. When she saw me she smiled almost naturally, and came forward with a fair imitation of a hostess’ welcoming manner. She was young and very pretty--a fine-featured, delicate woman, in a floating lace tea-gown. Her hand was thin and small, a real American hand, and gleamed with rings. I could see her husband, out of the tail of my eye, battling with his amazement and staring at Tom. Tom was behind me, looming up bulkily, not saying anything, but looking blankly through the glass wedged in his eye and pulling his mustache. “My dear Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, in my sweetest and most languid drawl, “are we late? I hope not. There is such a fog, really I thought we’d never get here.” My fingers touched her hand, and my eyes looked into hers. She was immensely curious and upset, but she smiled boldly and almost easily. I could see her inward wrestlings to place me, and to wonder if she could possibly have asked us, and had forgotten that too. “And at last,” I continued, glibly, “I am able to present my husband. I was afraid you were beginning to think he was a sort of Mrs. Harris. Harry, dear, Mrs. and Mr. Kennedy.” They all bowed. Tom held out his big paw, and took her little hand for a moment, and then dropped it. He had just the stolid, awkward, owlish look of a certain kind of army man. “Awfully glad to get here, I’m sure,” he boomed out. And then he said “What?” and looked at Mr. Kennedy. Mr. Kennedy was not as much master of the situation as his wife. He wasn’t exactly frightened, but he was inwardly distracted with not knowing what to do. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, loudly, to Tom, quite forgetting his English accent. “Glad you could get around here. Foggy night, all right!” I looked at the clock. Tom stood solemnly on the hearth-rug, staring at the fire. The Kennedys, for a moment, could think of nothing to say, and I had to look at the clock again, screw up my eyes, and remark: “Just half-past. We’re not really late at all. You know, Harry is _such_ a punctual person, and he’s afraid I’ve got into unpunctual habits while he’s been away.” “He _has_ been away for some time, hasn’t he?” said Mrs. Kennedy, looking from one to the other with piquant eyes that yearned for information. “Four years with the Lancers in India,” Tom boomed out again. The Kennedys were relieved. They’d got hold of something. They both sat down, and it was obvious that they gathered themselves together for new efforts.