He fidgeted nervously. “Oh, I passes the time o’ day, like, and tells him if his pants need pressin’ and little things like that.” “Does he ever say anything about me?” “Not lately he don’t.” “Have you any idea why not?” “I might ’ave a hidea, Slim; but what’s servants’ gossip, after all?” As he had me there I dropped the subject, stealing round to Cantyre’s quarters about eleven that night. To my knock, which was timid and self-conscious, he responded with a low “Come in” that lacked the heartiness to which he had accustomed me. As usual at this hour, he was in an elaborate dressing-gown, and also as usual the room was heavy with the scent of flowers. He was not lounging in an arm-chair, but sitting at his desk with his back to me, writing checks. “Oh, it’s you!” he said, without turning his head. “Thought I’d drop in on you.” He went on writing. “Do you want to sit down?” “Not if you’re busy.” “Got some bills to pay.” “Oh, then I’ll come another time.” Having gone in for one bit of information, I went out with another. Cantyre knew. I was not only sorry for his knowing, I was surprised at it. During the two months we had been in New York both Regina and I had been notably discreet. We had been discreet for the reasons that all the strings were in our own hands, and it depended solely on ourselves as to which we pulled. We alone were the responsible parties. That poor Cantyre shouldn’t have to suffer before we knew whether we meant to make him suffer or not had been a matter of concern to us both. If he knew, it was, therefore, not from me; and neither was it from Regina. There remained Annette, but she was as safe as ourselves. Further than Annette I couldn’t think of any one. I should have been more absorbed by this question had I not waked to new elements in the world drama, as one wakes to a sudden change in the weather. My surprise came not from any knowledge of new facts, but from the revival of my own faculty for putting two and two together. There had been a month in which depression had produced a kind of mental hibernation. When at the end of February I emerged from it the New World in particular had moved immeasurably far forward. Now that I came to notice it, I saw a change as perceptible as that in the wind in the whole American national position. As silently as the wind shifts to a new point of the compass a hundred millions of people had shifted their point of view. They were moving it onward day by day, with a rapidity of which they themselves were unconscious.