It was now April. Hambleby waited only for the crowning chapter. The arrangements for his publication had been made, all but the date, which was left unsettled, in case at the last moment a new opening should be found. At four o'clock on an April afternoon Jane was meditating on her affairs when the staircase bell rang somewhat imperiously. It sounded like somebody determined to get in. A month ago she would have taken no notice of it. Now she was afraid not to open her door lest Tanqueray should be there. It was not Tanqueray. It was Hugh Brodrick. For a second she wondered at him, not taking him in. She had forgotten that Brodrick existed. It was his eyes she recognized him by. They were fixed on her, smiling at her wonder. He stood on the little square of landing between the door and the foot of the staircase. "Of course," he said. "You're just going out?" "No, do come in." "May I? I don't believe you know in the least who I am." "I do, really. I'm very glad to see you." He followed her up the stairs and into her sitting-room, the small white-painted sitting-room, with its three straight windows looking on the Square. He went to one of the windows and looked out. "Yes," he said, "there is a charm about it." He spoke as if his mind had been long occupied with this place she lived in; as if they had disputed together many times as to the attraction of Kensington Square, and he had been won over, at last, reluctantly, to her view. It all strengthened the impression he gave of being absorbed in her. He turned to her. "You like living here? All alone? Cut off from everybody?" She remembered then how they had really discussed this question. "I like it very much indeed." "Well----" (He said it sadly.) "Do you write in this room? At that table?" "Yes." He looked at the table as if he thought it all very interesting and very incomprehensible and very sad. He looked at the books on the shelf close to the table and read George Tanqueray's name on them. He frowned slightly at the books and turned away. She sat down. He did not take the chair she indicated, but chose another where he could see her rather better. He was certainly a man who knew his own mind. "I've called," he said, "a great many times. But I've always missed you." "So at last you gave it up? Like everybody else." "Does it look as if I'd given it up?" She could not say it did. "No," he said. "I never give anything up. In that I'm not like everybody else." He wasn't, she reflected. And yet somehow he ought to have been. There was nothing so very remarkable about him. He smiled. "I believe," he said, "you thought I was the man come to tune the piano." "Did I look as if I did?" "A little." "Do I now?" She was beginning to like Brodrick. "Not so much. As it happens, I have come partly for the pleasure of seeing you and partly--to discuss, if you don't mind, some business." Jane was aware of a certain relief. If it was that he came for----