The vibrations of the room as they came to her were those of one which had belonged to an ascetic, long dead and held in the sort of respect by his country that is shown by the preservation of his work place. It was museum-like and tidy, even prim. The desk was in perfect order and had the cold appearance of not having been used for a century. The fireplace was clean and empty. The waste-paper basket might never have been employed. There was nothing personal to give the place warmth and life. No photographs of women or children. No old pipes. And even in the cold eyes of the bust of Dante that looked down upon her from the top of one of the bookcases there was no expression, either of surprise or resentment at her intrusion. Most women would have been chilled, and a little frightened, there. It would have been natural for them, in Feo’s circumstances, had they possessed imagination, to have been struck with a sense of remorse. It should have been their business, if nothing else, to see that this room lived and had personality, comfort and a little color,—flowers from time to time, and at least one charming picture of a youngster on the parental desk. And Feo did feel, as she looked about in her new mood, a little shiver of shame and the red-hot needle of repentance pricking her hitherto dormant conscience. “Poor old Edmund,” she said aloud, “what have I done to him? This place is dry, bloodless, like a mausoleum. Well, I’ll alter it all. I have a job, thank God. Something to set my teeth into. Something to direct my energy at,—if it isn’t too late.” And as this startling afterthought struck her, she wheeled round, darted across the room to the place where a narrow slip of looking-glass hung in an old gold frame, and put herself through a searching examination. “Mf! Still attractive in your own peculiar way,” she said finally, with relief. “The early bloom gone, of course; lines here and there, especially round the eyes. Massage and the proper amount of sleep will probably rub those away. But there’s distinction about you, Feo dear, and softness can be cultivated. You’re as hard as an oil painting now, you priceless rotter. However, hope springs eternal, and where there’s a will there’s a way.” She laughed at herself for these nursery quotations and clenched her fists for the fray. But as she turned, fairly well satisfied with the result of her inspection, she heard steps in the corridor—Fallaray’s steps—and the blood rushed into her face. By George, she was going to be caught, after all. IV Fallaray? This sun-tanned, smiling man with shoulders square, chin high, and a song in his eyes, who came into the room like a southwest gale? If he felt surprise at the unfamiliar sight of Feo in his den, he allowed nothing of it to show. He held out a cordial hand and went to her eagerly. “I’ve come up to town to see you,” he said. “You must have got my S. O. S.”