"Father, do you remember anything about an old crazy woman who lived down south of Market Street somewhere, years ago—in a cheap hotel, I think it was?" He started at her question and his voice, ordinarily so calm and so mellow, quavered slightly. "What do you mean? Who was she?" he asked earnestly. "That’s what I want to know," Clytie said, stirring her coffee. "What do you know about her?" "Why—I went to see her once." "_You_ went to see her? When?" "Then you _did_ know her!" Mr. Payson spoke cautiously, watching his daughter. "I have heard about her, yes, but I never knew you had been there. How in the world did that happen? It must have been a long time ago." He stared as if he could scarcely believe her assertion. "Mother took me there once or twice. It’s almost the first thing I remember." "She did? She never told me! It’s strange you have never mentioned it before." "Perhaps I oughtn’t to mention it now. I thought, somehow, that she wouldn’t want me to tell you about it." His tone now was disturbed, anxious, pitched in a higher key. "Why shouldn’t you speak of it? What difference could it possibly make? I remember that woman, yes. She was not old, though. Do you recall her well? You were very young then." "I can almost see her now. She had white hair and black eyebrows, with a vertical line between them; she was pale, but with bright red lips. She wore a strange red gown. I think she must have been very beautiful at one time. Who was she, father?" Clytie sent a calm, level glance at him. "Oh, she was a friend of your mother’s. Your mother and I used to keep track of her and help her, that’s all." "Was she poor, then?" "No, she wasn’t. That was the queer part of it. She had considerable ability and actually carried on a real estate business, though she was pretty mad. She had lucid intervals, though, when she was as reasonable as any one." "What became of her?" "She died, I think, of heart disease. It must have been the same year your mother died, if I remember rightly." "What was her name?" Mr. Payson grew more nervous at this questioning, but he replied, "They called her Madam Grant, I believe. How did you happen to bring up the subject after all these years, Cly?" It was her turn to be embarrassed. "Well—I’ve recalled that scene occasionally, and wondered about it—it has always been a mystery I couldn’t explain, and I never dared talk about it. Of course, it’s only one of those vivid early pictures of childhood, but it has always seemed very romantic." "It was a strange situation," Mr. Payson replied. "She was a very unfortunate woman and I was sorry for her. I never would have permitted you to go, if I had known, of course, but perhaps your mother knew best." He dropped his chin upon his hand. "Yes, I’m glad you went, now. What impression did she make on you?" "I only remember thinking how beautiful she must have been."