Ruthita was telling my grandmother all that she could remember of Lilith. I ripped open the envelope and read: _Something has happened. Must see you at once. Come as soon as you can. Vi._ “Who’s your letter from?” “From Mrs. Carpenter.” “Mrs. Carpenter again! What does she want? It’s not more’n nine hours since you saw her.” “She wants my advice on--on a business matter.” “Humph! I ’ope she may profit by it.” As I was sauntering out of the shop Ruthita called after me in her high clear voice, “Going to take me to Yarminster to-day, Dante?” “Don’t know yet. I’ll tell you later.” Until I reached the top of the street I strolled jauntily; I was sure I was being watched. I had left an atmosphere of jealous annoyance and baffled suspicion behind. It was absurd to be nursed and guarded by affectionate relatives in the way I was. I was puzzled by Vi’s note. I worked out all kinds of conjectures as I jostled my way through fisher-girls and sailors up the High Street. I was shown into the room at the back of the black flint house, which overlooked the sea. The windows were open wide; wind fluttered the curtains. Breakfast things were only partially cleared from the table. Upstairs I could hear Dorrie’s piping voice and, now and then, could catch a phrase of what she was saying. “Let me thee him too, Vi. Oh, pleath. No, I don’t want to play wiv Annie. I want to play wiv Dante.” Then I heard the thump, thump, thump of Dorrie stumping from stair to stair by way of protest, and the heavy step of Annie taking her forcibly to the kitchen. Vi descended a moment later. She entered without eagerness, shutting the door carefully behind her. There was never anything of hurry or neglect in her appearance; she always looked fresh and trimly attired. The high color in her usually pale cheeks was the only sign of perturbation. She crossed the room towards me with a slow, swaying motion, and halted a foot away, holding out her hand. I took it in mine, pressing it gently. Her mouth was quivering. She was making an effort to be formally polite and was not succeeding. The soft rustling of her skirts, the slow rise and fall of her bosom, her delicate fragrance and timid beauty--everything about her was bewilderingly feminine. What arguments, I wondered, what campaigns of caution, what capitulations of wild desires to duty were going on behind that smooth white forehead? My grip on her hand tightened; I drew her to me. Her cold remoteness added to my yearning. “What is it? Why did you send for me? You’ve changed since last night.” She drew her hand free from mine. I saw that, for the first time since I had known her, she was wearing a band of gold upon her wedding-finger. “It’s all over, Dante.” She whispered the words, wringing her hands and staring away from me out to sea. I slipped my arm about her shoulder. “It can never be all over, dearest.”