“These are the occasions,” said Mother, becoming a little flustered, “when one does so feel the need of our dear English servants. Now if I could just say, ‘What is he like, Annie?’ I should know whether to see him or not. But he may be some common man, selling something—one of those American inventions for peeling things, you know, dear. Or he may even be some kind of foreign sharper.” Mother winced at the hard, bright little word as though she had given herself a dig with her embroidery scissors. But here Marie smiled at Milly and murmured “C’est un très beau Monsieur.” “What does she say, dear?” “She says he looks very nice, Mother.” “Well, we’d better——” began Mother. “Where is he now I wonder.” Marie answered “In the vestibule, Madame.” In the hall! Mother jumped up, seriously alarmed. In the hall, with all those valuable little foreign things that didn’t belong to them scattered over the tables. “Show him in, Marie. Come, Milly, come dear. We will see him in the salon. Oh, why isn’t Miss Anderson here?” almost wailed Mother. But Miss Anderson, Mother’s new companion, never was on the spot when she was wanted. She had been engaged to be a comfort, a support to them both. Fond of travelling, a cheerful disposition, a good packer and so on. And then, when they had come all this way and taken the Villa Martin and moved in, she had turned out to be a Roman Catholic. Half her time, more than half, was spent wearing out the knees of her skirts in cold churches. It was really too.... The door opened. A middle-aged clean-shaven, very well dressed stranger stood bowing before them. His bow was stately. Milly saw it pleased Mother very much; she bowed her Queen Alexandra bow back. As for Milly, she never could bow. She smiled, feeling shy, but deeply interested. “Have I the pleasure,” said the stranger very courteously, with a strong American accent, “of speaking with Mrs. Wyndham Fawcett?” “I am Mrs. Fawcett,” said Mother, graciously, “and this is my daughter, Mildred.” “Pleased to meet you, Miss Fawcett.” And the stranger shot a fresh, chill hand at Milly, who grasped it just in time before it was gone again. “Won’t you sit down?” said Mother, and she waved faintly at all the gilt chairs. “Thank you, I will,” said the stranger. Down he sat, still solemn, crossing his legs, and, most surprisingly, his arms as well. His face looked at them over his dark arms as over a gate. “Milly, sit down, dear.” So Milly sat down, too, on the Madame Recamier couch, and traced a filet lace flower with her finger. There was a little pause. She saw the stranger swallow; Mother’s fan opened and shut.