Galt entertained no thought of malice toward his old enemies. Proof of this was dramatic and unexpected. A servant came up one afternoon with the name of Bullguard. I could hardly believe it. I found him standing in the middle of the hall, just inside the door, a large, impenetrable figure, giving one the impression of immovable purpose. I had never seen him before. “I wish to see Mr. Galt,” he said, in a voice like a tempered north wind. “Nobody sees him, you know.” “I must see him,” he replied. “I will ask him. Is it a matter of business?” “It is very personal,” he said. The way he said this gave me suddenly a glimpse of his hidden character. Beneath that terrifying aspect, back of that glowering under which strong men quailed, lay more shy, human gentleness than would be easily imagined. Galt received him. They were alone together for a full hour. What passed between them will never be known. I waited in the library room, one removed from Galt’s bedchamber, and saw Bullguard leave. He passed me unawares, looking straight ahead of him, as one in a hypnotic trance. Outside he forgot his car and went stalking down the drive in that same unseeing manner, grasping a great thick walking stick at the middle and waving it slowly before his face. His car followed and picked him up somewhere out of sight. iii One of the minor triumphs of this time was the collapse of the social feud. Mrs. Valentine’s subjects began to revolt. Society made definite overtures to the Galt women. But nobody now cared. Mrs. Galt and Natalie lived only for Galt, and they were the two who would in any case be interested. Mrs. Galt was his silent companion. Natalie was his mercury, going errands swiftly between his bedchamber and the office. She was absorbed in what went on and a good deal of it she understood in an imaginative manner. Coming with a message from Galt, perhaps a request for information or data, she would often sit at my desk to hear or see the results, saying, “I feel so stupid when I don’t know what it means.” In the evening, as we might be walking or driving together, she would review the transactions of the day and get them all explained. Vera lived in New York at her studio, but came often to Moonstool. Her engagement to Lord Porteous was renewed. She spoke to me about it one evening on the west terrace, after sunset. “You were right about Lord Porteous,” she said. “He refused from the beginning to consider our engagement broken.” “Of course,” I said. That was evidently not what she expected me to say. She gave me a slow, sidewise look. “I’m very glad,” I added, making it worse. We took several turns in silence. “Why are you glad?” she asked, in a tone she seldom used. “Isn’t that what I should say?... I was thinking ... I don’t know what I was thinking ... nor why I am glad.” We stood for a long time, a little apart, watching the afterglow. She shivered. “I am cold,” she said. “Let’s go in, please.” iv