I strolled away from the window into the interior of the house. I was not so much calm as numb. There were details about which I had to speak to Mrs. Grace, but they all went out of my mind. They went out of my mind as matters with which I had no more concern. A dying man might feel that way about the earthly things he is leaving behind. I was, in fact, not so much like a dying man as like a man who in the full flush of vigor is told that he must in a few minutes face the firing-squad. So I stood doing nothing, thinking nothing, while I listened to the three voices as they floated up, first from the lower floor, then from the stairway, then from the floor on which I was waiting in this seeming nervelessness. They drifted nearer—Mrs. Grace’s gentle tones, Elsie Coningsby’s silvery tinkle, and then the rich mezzo, which by association of ideas seemed to shed round me a rose-colored light. Mrs. Grace and Miss Coningsby came in together, the one in black, the other in white. Both bade me a friendly, impersonal good morning, while Mrs. Grace proceeded at once to the question of rugs. Didn’t I think that good serviceable American rugs, with some of those nice Oriental druggets people used in summer cottages, would be better than anything more fragile and expensive? I made such answers as I could, keeping my eyes on the door. Presently she appeared on the threshold, looking about with interest and curiosity in her great, dark eyes. Of the minute I retain no more than a vision in rough green English tweed, with a goldish-greenish motoring-veil round the head like a nimbus. She impressed me as at once more delicate and more strong than I remembered her—eager, alert, independent. “This is to be the men’s smoking-room,” Miss Coningsby explained. “Wouldn’t you know it?” Miss Barry said, lightly. “One of the nicest rooms in the house—I think the very nicest. It’s wonderful how well men do themselves, isn’t it?” “Oh, but in this case it’s Hilda.” “It’s your brother first of all. You’ll see. It will be the snuggest corner of the whole place, and they won’t let a woman look into it.” She glanced at me—but casually. She glanced again—but casually again. As no one introduced me, a greeting between us was not called for. But when Mrs. Grace finished her questions about the rugs and they were passing into the next room, Regina Barry turned and looked at me a third time. It was now an inquiring look, and significant. “Elsie, who’s that man?” I heard her say, after she had joined her companions. The reply gave my name. “Oh!” “He’s been helping Ralph all summer. That’s how he and Esther were able to get away.” “Oh!” “Now we’re going on to the day nursery—” But Regina Barry said: “Wait a minute! No; go on. I’ll overtake you. I’m—I’m perfectly sure that that’s the very man who—” She added, as if forcing herself to a determination: “I’m going back to speak to him. Tell Hilda I’ll be with her in an instant.”