Now while these things were passing, the lady and I were standing on my landing, which was four foot by three; she with one foot on the stair below, one leather shoulder against the wall. And one had again, with her, a sense of the conventions. “You are thinking,” she accused me. “I wonder what about....” The light that plunged through my half-open sitting-room door fought a great fight with the shadow of her green hat and lit her face mysteriously. She was fair. As they would say it in the England of long ago--she was fair. And she was grave, so grave. That is a sad lady, I thought. To be fair, to be sad ... why, was she intelligent, too? And white she was, very white, and her painted mouth was purple in the dim light, and her eyes, which seemed set very wide apart, were cool, impersonal, sensible, and they were blazing blue. Even in that light they were blazing blue, like two spoonfuls of the Mediterranean in the early morning of a brilliant day. The sirens had eyes like that, without a doubt, when they sang of better dreams. But no siren, she! That was a sad lady, most grave. And always her hair would be dancing a tawny, formal dance about the small white cheeks. She smiled, when it occurred to her that she was looking at me. “I know what you are thinking,” she said. “I wonder!” “Yes. You like Gerald, don’t you?” She thought about that. “Well, what you are thinking is, whether it is fair to him to take me up there in case he is drunk....” “If only it was ‘in case,’” I said. “You see?” She closed her eyes. “Poor Gerald!” she whispered. “Isn’t it a shame!” “I’m afraid,” I said, “there’s nothing to be done....” “Oh, I know!” Oh, she seemed to know that from her heart. And I wondered why they had not seen each other for ten years. I couldn’t imagine her disliking Gerald--childish, furious Gerald! Probably, I thought, he was to blame, and I wondered if there was anything in Gerald’s life for which he was not to blame. Poor Gerald. “You see,” the slightly husky voice was saying, “I just came to-night on an Impulse. I am scarcely ever in England....” The voice expired. We waited, and she acknowledged my patience with a jewel of a smile. “And I suddenly thought I would like to see Gerald to-night. Please,” she suddenly begged, so seriously, “won’t you let me? I’d like just to _see_ him ... but if you think ...?” “Oh,” I said, “come on.” She laughed, a little nervously, abruptly. Gerald’s door was at the head of the next flight of stairs, and it was, as usual, wide open. She moved one step forward into the room, she stopped, her eyes on the ceiling, as fixed as lamps. Yes, those were very sensible eyes. She didn’t look at Gerald. “What is it?” she asked dimly. “Whisky,” I said. It was so obvious. “But more than that! There’s certainly whisky, but....” “Wet shoes....” “But that’s too literary! Oh, of course! Old women in alms-houses....”