“She wishes to come to you here--this afternoon, if you are to be at home. She asked me to say that her business is important--and very private.” I hesitated, but I could think of no good excuse for refusing. “I'll be here an hour,” said I. “Good day.” He gave me no time to change my mind. Something--perhaps it was his curious expression as he took himself off--made me begin to regret. The more I thought of the matter, the less I thought of my having made any civil concession to a woman who had acted so badly toward Anita and myself. He had not been gone a quarter of an hour before I went to Anita in her sitting-room. Always, the instant I entered the outer door of her part of our house, that powerful, intoxicating fascination that she had for me began to take possession of my senses. It was in every garment she wore. It seemed to linger in any place where she had been, for a long time after she left it. She was at a small desk by the window, was writing letters. “May I interrupt?” said I. “Monson was here a few minutes ago--from Mrs. Langdon. She wants to see me. I told him I would see her here. Then it occurred to me that perhaps I had been too good-natured. What do you think?” I could not see her face, but only the back of her head, and the loose coils of magnetic hair and the white nape of her graceful neck. As I began to speak, she stopped writing, her pen suspended over the sheet of paper. After I ended there was a long silence. “I'll not see her,” said I. “I don't quite understand why I yielded.” And I turned to go. “Wait--please,” came from her abruptly. Another long silence. Then I: “If she comes here, I think the only person who can properly receive her is you.” “No--you must see her,” said Anita at last. And she turned round in her chair until she was facing me. Her expression--I can not describe it. I can only say that it gave me a sense of impending calamity. “I'd rather not--much rather not,” said I. “I particularly wish you to see her,” she replied, and she turned back to her writing. I saw her pen poised as if she were about to begin; but she did not begin--and I felt that she would not. With my mind shadowed with vague dread, I left that mysterious stillness, and went back to the library. It was not long before Mrs. Langdon was announced. There are some women to whom a haggard look is becoming; she is one of them. She was much thinner than when I last saw her; instead of her former restless, petulant, suspicious expression, she now looked tragically sad. “May I trouble you to close the door?” said she, when the servant had withdrawn. I closed the door. “I've come,” she began, without seating herself, “to make you as unhappy, I fear, as I am. I've hesitated long before coming. But I am desperate. The one hope I have left is that you and I between us may be able to--to--that you and I may be able to help each other.” I waited.