Past the servant, Cassy forced her way through the vestibule, into the sitting-room, where the usual gloom abided, but where, unusually, were a smell of camphor, two overcoats, two trunks and a bag. Cassy, putting down the bundle, exclaimed at them. "He is not leaving town?" "Yes, mem, to-morrow morning, for Mineola." He spoke grudgingly, looking as he spoke like a little old mule at bay. Cassy, noticing that, said: "See here, I don't mean to bully you, but it is most important that I should see Mr. Lennox--important for him, do you hear?" "I hear you, mem, but I don't know where he is." "Then find out. There must be a telephone." Harris scratched his head but otherwise he did nothing. "Come!" Cassy told him. "Hurry!" Harris shifted. "I don't know as how he'd like it. He's been that upset these last few days. I----" He hesitated. Visibly an idea had visited him with which he was grappling. "You're not from Miss Austen, now, are you?" Cassy caught at it. To confirm it would be fanciful. To deny it would be extravagant. Choosing an in-between for the benefit of this servant whom she knew to be English, she produced it. "I am the Viscountess of Casa-Evora." Harris wiped his mouth. A viscountess who had come only the other day with a bundle, and who now forced her way in with another bundle, did not coincide with such knowledge as he had of the nobility. But she was certainly overbearing enough to be anybody. He turned. "Very good, your ladyship, I'll telephone." Don't ladyship me, Cassy was about to reply, but judging that impolitic, she sat down. On the train in she had debated whether she would go first to Harlem or to Lennox and in either case what afterward she should do. She had a few dollars which her father would need. The thought of these assets reminded her that in changing her clothes she had omitted to change back into her own stockings. Well, when she changed again she would return the pair which she had on and, as she determined on that, she saw Paliser's face as she had seen it when she threw the vase. That relapse into the primitive shamed her. She had behaved like a fish-wife. But though she regretted the violence, she regretted even more deeply the vase. The destruction of art is so despicably Hun! For moxa, she evoked the Grantly masquerade. The entire lack of art in that seemed to her incongruous with the surface Paliser whom she had known. But had she even known the surface which itself was a mask? Yet behind the mask was an intelligence which at least was not ordinary, yet which, none the less, had descended to that! She could not understand it. She could not understand, what some one later explained to her, that a high order of intellect does not of itself prevent a man from soiling it and, with it, himself and his hands. The explanation came later, when other matters were occupying her and when Paliser, headlined in the papers, was dead.