But while they talked of these matters, his glance drifted on past Virginia to the pretty silent girl. When at last Norton took his leave, he was hospitably urged to call again, an invitation he professed himself as fully determined to make the most of. He was the first young man who had ever called there, though this was not because there was any dearth of young men in the town; but Harriett was aware that Virginia's point of view regarding strangers was conservative to say the least; here, however, was a young man whose grandfather had been a prominent man in the county when a Landray had been the prominent man of all that region. So Norton was welcomed graciously whenever he chose to call. Yet somehow after that first call they avoided all mention of him; even repeated visits did not provoke them to discussion; and at this, Harriett wondered not a little. At last Virginia astonished her small household by announcing that she had invited Norton to tea. They dined in the middle of the day, but on this particular evening tea became a very elaborate affair indeed, for it was the first time in twenty years, or since Stephen Landray's death, that Virginia had bidden a guest to her home. Even Harriett, who thought she knew all the resources of the household, was astonished at the old silver and glass and china that was brought out for the occasion; nor had she ever before seen Virginia dressed with such richness; and she did not wonder that Norton whispered to her as Virginia quitted the room on some errand: “What a beautiful woman Mrs. Landray is, I wonder she never married again.” “She will never marry, she is devoted to her husband,” said Harriett. “Odd, isn't it, that one should always be thinking of that?” he said. “You mean her devotion to his memory?” “No, not that—I mean that one should always wonder why a pretty woman doesn't marry.” “But when you have lost some one you love.” “Of course—I suppose love only seems so important in our own lives because we know what it has meant to some, and so hope it may mean the same to us.” “Does it seem so important?” she asked, the colour coming into her cheeks. “Doesn't it?” he asked quietly. “Really I don't know, I had never thought of it—in that way.” “It's a part of what we call success in life; it may be the better part—it should be, Harriett.” His voice dwelt lingeringly and caressingly on her name. She gave him a frightened, embarrassed glance. It was the first time he had ever called her anything else than Miss Walsh. She hoped all at once that her mother or Virginia would come into the room; but she knew they were busy elsewhere and would not appear until tea was served. “Don't you think that?” he asked. “I don't know. I have never thought of it,” she said faintly. “I wish you'd think of it now,” he insisted. “Why?” she faltered.