Vera failed to observe in the dim light the effort the question cost Noyes, but she was quick to note the formality of his query. Four days before he would have said “Millicent.” A lovers’ quarrel would explain his peculiar behavior and altered demeanor; but he and Millicent had been good friends, nothing more. Vera frowned in perplexity, and her reply was tinged with stiffness. “Miss Porter appears quite well.” Noyes peered at her in the gloom in uncertainty. “Appears well,” he muttered under his breath. “Has she--” He was interrupted by the pulling back of the portières of the hall doorway, and Millicent Porter walked in, her light footfall being deadened by the heavy rugs. An exclamation, quickly stifled, escaped Noyes, and he pulled his officer’s cape more closely about him, then turned and faced her. “Why are you staying here in the dark, Vera?” she inquired. “Oh, I beg pardon,” perceiving for the first time that Vera was not alone; then as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light she recognized Alan Noyes. A wave of emotion, instantly suppressed, shook her, and, laying one trembling hand on the nearest chair back, she waited in silence; a silence spent by Vera in glancing from one to the other, her perplexity deepening; what had arisen to estrange the surgeon and Millicent? And if they had quarreled, why had he returned to be a guest in her mother’s house? Vera’s expression betrayed her doubts, and Noyes, who had edged imperceptibly nearer, perceived her hesitancy. “Good afternoon, Miss Porter,” he said, and the effort to repress all emotion made his voice devoid of feeling. “Good evening,” responded Millicent with equal coolness. “It is Dr. Noyes, is it not?” Noyes flushed hotly. “Yes, I returned, I--” Mrs. Porter’s entrance broke in on his stammered explanations. She wasted no words, but advanced with outstretched hand. “Welcome back,” she exclaimed in cordial greeting. “I could hardly believe Murray when he said you were here. Have you seen Craig?” “Not yet, I--” Noyes brightened perceptibly at her cordiality. “I was just telling your daughter and Miss Deane that I missed my steamer and--” “Came back here, _naturally_,” put in Mrs. Porter blandly. “We would not pardon your going elsewhere, would we, Millicent?” addressing her daughter who had stepped over to the mantelpiece and was absently fingering one of the Sèvres vases. “No, certainly not,” she remarked without turning around. Mrs. Porter’s eyebrows met in a frown, but whatever rejoinder she would have made was cut short by an announcement from Murray as he waited in the doorway. “Dr. Thorne is here to see you, madam.”