The Galt house was tall, brown and conventional, lying safe within the fringe. It was near the middle of the block. Eastward toward Fifth Avenue as the scale of wealth ascended there were several handsome houses. Westward toward Sixth Avenue at the extreme end of the block you might suspect high class board. But it is a long block; one end does not know the other. About the entrance, especially at the front door as Galt admitted us with a latch-key, there was an effect of stinted upkeep. Inside we were putting off our things, with no sign of a servant, when suddenly a black and white cyclone swept down the hall, imperilling in its passage a number of things and threatening to overwhelm its own object; but instead at the miraculous moment it became rigid, gracefully executed a flying slide on the tiled floor, and came to a perfect stop with Galt in its arms. “Safe!” I shouted, filled with excitement and admiration. “Natalie,” said Galt, introducing her. She shook hands in a free, roguish manner, smiling with me at herself, without really for an instant taking her attention off Galt. “You’re wet,” she said severely. “No, I’m not.” “You’re soaking wet,” she insisted, feeling and pinching him at the same time. “You’ve got to change.” “I’ve got to do nothing of the kind,” he said. “We want to talk. Let us alone.” To me he said: “Come up to my room,” and made for the stairway. Natalie, getting ahead of him, barred the way. “You won’t have a minute to talk,” she said. “Dinner is ready. Go in there.” “Oh, all right ... all right,” he growled, turning into the parlor. Almost before he could sit down she was at him with a dry coat, holding it. Grumbling and pretending to be churlish, yet secretly much pleased, he changed garments, saying: “Will that do you?” “For now,” she said, smoothing the collar and giving him a little whack to finish. Mrs. Galt appeared. Then Galt’s mother, introduced simply and sweetly by her nursery name, Gram’ma Galt. There was an embarrassing pause. “Where is Vera?” Galt asked. Vera, I supposed, was the ferryboat girl. Nobody answered his question. Mrs. Galt by an effort of strong intention moved us silently toward the dining room. The house seemed bare,--no pictures to look at, a few pieces of fine old furniture mixed with modern things, good rugs worn shabby and no artistry of design or effect whatever except in the middle room between parlor and dining room which contained a grand piano, some art objects and a thought of color. Nothing in the house was positively ugly or in bad taste, nor in the total impression was there any uncomfortable suggestion of genteel poverty. What the environment seemed to express, all save that one middle room, was indifference. “You will want to talk,” said Mrs. Galt, placing me at the left of Galt, so that I faced Natalie, who sat at his right. This was the foot of the table. Mrs. Galt sat at the head of it, with Gram’ma Galt at her right and a vacant place at her left.