Perhaps, however, her enjoyment proceeded more than she was aware from the physical stimulus of the excursion, the challenge of crisp cold and hard exercise, the responsive thrill of her body to the influences of the winter woods. She returned to town in a glow of rejuvenation, conscious of a clearer colour in her cheeks, a fresh elasticity in her muscles. The future seemed full of a vague promise, and all her apprehensions were swept out of sight on the buoyant current of her mood. A few days after her return to town she had the unpleasant surprise of a visit from Mr. Rosedale. He came late, at the confidential hour when the tea-table still lingers by the fire in friendly expectancy; and his manner showed a readiness to adapt itself to the intimacy of the occasion. Lily, who had a vague sense of his being somehow connected with her lucky speculations, tried to give him the welcome he expected; but there was something in the quality of his geniality which chilled her own, and she was conscious of marking each step in their acquaintance by a fresh blunder. Mr. Rosedale—making himself promptly at home in an adjoining easy-chair, and sipping his tea critically, with the comment: “You ought to go to my man for something really good”—appeared totally unconscious of the repugnance which kept her in frozen erectness behind the urn. It was perhaps her very manner of holding herself aloof that appealed to his collector’s passion for the rare and unattainable. He gave, at any rate, no sign of resenting it and seemed prepared to supply in his own manner all the ease that was lacking in hers. His object in calling was to ask her to go to the opera in his box on the opening night, and seeing her hesitate he said persuasively: “Mrs. Fisher is coming, and I’ve secured a tremendous admirer of yours, who’ll never forgive me if you don’t accept.” As Lily’s silence left him with this allusion on his hands, he added with a confidential smile: “Gus Trenor has promised to come to town on purpose. I fancy he’d go a good deal farther for the pleasure of seeing you.” Miss Bart felt an inward motion of annoyance: it was distasteful enough to hear her name coupled with Trenor’s, and on Rosedale’s lips the allusion was peculiarly unpleasant. “The Trenors are my best friends—I think we should all go a long way to see each other,” she said, absorbing herself in the preparation of fresh tea. Her visitor’s smile grew increasingly intimate. “Well, I wasn’t thinking of Mrs. Trenor at the moment—they say Gus doesn’t always, you know.” Then, dimly conscious that he had not struck the right note, he added, with a well-meant effort at diversion: “How’s your luck been going in Wall Street, by the way? I hear Gus pulled off a nice little pile for you last month.”