Chester Kent immediately seized that unoffending member and clung to it with much the lost and anguished expression of the pale martyr in the once popular _Rock of Ages_ chromo. His tormentor considered him with malicious eyes. “Did any woman ever say ‘Boo!’ to him suddenly, I wonder?” she mused aloud. Like a saving grace, there came into Kent’s mind a fragment of _The Hunting of the Snark_, in which he had just been reveling. Said he gravely: “He would answer to ‘Hi!’ or to any loud cry Such as ‘Fry me’ or ‘Fritter my wig’!” She caught up the stanza: “To ‘What-you-may-call-um’ or ‘What-was-his-name!’ But especially ‘Thing-um-a-jig.’” “So you know Lewis Carroll. How really human of you!” “It is better to be humane than human,” murmured Kent, relinquishing his aural grip as he began to touch bottom. “Is that a plea? Very well. I shall be very gentle and soothing. But, oh,” she burst out irrepressibly, “may the kindly fates give me to be among those present when you fall in love!” Kent favored her with an elaborate bow. “Your presence would be the one essential.” “Really,” she approved, “you’re progressing. I begin to feel repaid for my visit, already.” This time Kent looked her in the eye. “You’re not very demanding in the matter of returns for your trouble,” he remarked. “To come through all this wind and rain and then be content merely to contemplate the outside of a door—that argues an humble spirit. To be sure, however, it’s a very good door; one of the most interesting features of our local architecture, and may lead to—all sorts of things.” It was her turn to grow red. “You haven’t asked me about Sedgwick,” he continued. “Is he well?” she inquired formally, but with quickened breath. “He is more than that. He is cured—and a man. A man,” he added meaningly, “for any woman to be proud of.” There was a step on the floor above. Marjorie Blair’s hand went to her heart. “I didn’t know he was here,” she panted affrightedly. “I came just to—look at the place. Then I saw the light, and I wanted so to come in; but I didn’t dare. I can’t see him now! I must go! Don’t tell—” Chester Kent raised his voice. “Frank!” he called. “Come down here! Quick!” Not twice in his life had Sedgwick heard that tone in his friend’s voice. The bungalow shook to his long tread across the floor. The studio door opened and flew shut behind him. He took the stairs at a leap, and on the landing stopped dead. “Marjorie!” he whispered. She shrank back a little from the light in his eyes. “What do you do here?” he said very low. Still she did not speak, but stood, tremulous, her face half panic, half passion. Unobtrusively Kent slid along the wall, like a shadow, and vanished into the night. “Where have you been?” Sedgwick asked the woman of his love. “Everywhere. Nowhere. What does it matter?” she faltered. “I’ve come back.” He went forward and took her hands in his; cold little hands that clung as they touched.