He watched incuriously a little old lady rather arduously alight, pause, and look up at his darkened windows, and after a momentary hesitation, and a word over her shoulder to the cabman, stoop and fumble at the iron latch. He watched her with a kind of wondering aversion, still scarcely tinged with curiosity. She had succeeded in lifting the latch and in pushing her way through, and was even now steadily advancing towards him along the tiled path. And a minute after he recognised with the strangest reactions the quiet old figure that had shared a sunset with him ages and ages ago—his mother’s old schoolfellow, Miss Sinnet. He was already ransacking the still faintly-perfumed dining-room for matches, and had just succeeded in relighting the still-warm lamp, when he heard her quiet step in the porch, even felt her peering in, in the gloom, with all her years’ trickling customariness behind her, a little dubious of knocking on a wide-open door. But the lamp lit Lawford went out again and welcomed his visitor. ‘I am alone,’ he was explaining gravely, ‘my wife’s away and the whole house topsy-turvy. How very, very kind of you!’ The old lady was breathing a little heavily after her ascent of the steep steps, and seemed not to have noticed his outstretched hand. None the less she followed him in, and when she was well advanced into the lighted room, she sighed deeply, raised her veil over the front of her bonnet, and leisurely took out her spectacles. ‘I suppose,’ she was explaining in a little quiet voice, ‘you _are_ Mr Arthur Lawford, but as I did not catch sight of a light in any of the windows I began to fear that the cabman might have set me down at the wrong house.’ She raised her head, and first through, and then over her spectacles she deliberately and steadfastly regarded him. ‘Yes,’ she said to herself, and turned, not as it seemed entirely with satisfaction, to look for a chair. He wheeled the most comfortable up to the table. ‘I have been visiting my old friend Miss Tucker—Rev W. Tucker’s daughter—she, I knew, could give me your address; and sure enough she did. Your road, d’ye see, was on my way home. And I determined, in spite of the hour, just to inquire. You must understand, Mr Lawford, there was something that I rather particularly wanted to say to you. But there!—you’re looking sadly, sadly ill; and,’ she glanced round a little inquisitively, ‘I think my story had better wait for a more convenient occasion.’ ‘Not at all, Miss Sinnet; please not,’ Lawford assured her, ‘really. I have been ill, but I’m now practically quite myself again. My wife and daughter have gone away for a few days; and I follow to-morrow, so if you’ll forgive such a very poor welcome, it may be my—my only chance. Do please let me hear.’