The Hilda of to-day seemed far further away than the Hilda of ten years ago. They talked in a rather desultory fashion for some time. Mrs. Archinard's presence was damping, and even Katherine's smile was like a flower seen through rain. The little clock on the mantelpiece struck the quarter. "Almost six!" exclaimed Katherine; "we must have tea." "Yes, we may sacrifice ourselves, but we must not sacrifice Mr. Odd," said Mrs. Archinard with distinct fretfulness. Taylor answered the bell, and Peter, with a quickness of combination that surprised himself, surmised that Hilda was out alone. Had she become emancipated? Bohemian? His melancholy grew stronger. Tea was brought, a charming set of daintiest white and a little silver teapot of a quaint and delicate design. "Hilda designed it in Florence," said Katherine, seeing him looking at it; "an Italian friend had it made for her after her own model and drawings. Yes, Hilda goes in for decorative work a good deal. People who know about it have admired that teapot, as you do, I see." "It's a lovely thing," said Peter, as Katherine turned it before him; "the simplicity of the outline and the delicate bas-relief"--he bent his head to look more closely--"exquisite." And he thought it rather rough on Hilda; to pour the tea from her own teapot without waiting for her. Still, he owned, when at last the door-bell rang at fully half-past six, that he might have been asking for too much patience. "There she is," said Katherine; "I must go and tell her that you are here." Katherine went out, and Odd heard a murmured colloquy in the entrance. He was conscious of feeling excited, and unconsciously rose to his feet and looked eagerly toward the door. But only Katherine came in. "I don't believe I shall ever see Hilda!" he exclaimed, with an assumption of exasperation that hid some real nervousness. Katherine laughed. "Oh yes, you shall, in five minutes. She had to wash her face and hands. Artists are untidy people, you know," and Odd, with that same strange acuteness of perception with which he seemed dowered this afternoon, felt that Hilda had been coming in in all her artistic untidiness, and that Katherine had seen to a more respectable _entrée_. It rather irritated him with Katherine, and that tactful young lady probably guessed at his disappointment, for she went to the piano and began to play a sad aria from one of Schumann's Sonatas that sighed and pled and sobbed. She played very well, with the same perfect taste that she showed in her gowns, and Peter was too fond of music, too fond of Schumann especially, not to listen to her. In the middle of the aria Hilda came in. It was over in a moment, the meeting, as the most exciting things in life are. Peter had not realized till the moment came how much it would excite him.