Turning up his own street he increased his pace, realising suddenly that he had not been within his own doors for more than four months. Much might have happened in that time--to change his life, perhaps. As he approached the house he saw a strange servant, an elderly woman, on her knees at the steps, and somehow the sight conveyed to his mind the thought that there was something waiting for him within that peaceful little house. He almost ran those last few yards, and sprang up the steps past the astonished woman without a word of explanation. The gas in the narrow entrance-hall was lighted, and as he threw aside his cap he perceived a warm gleam of firelight through the half-open door of the dining-room. He crossed the carpeted hall, and pushed open that door. Near the little breakfast-table, just under the gas, stood Hilda Carew. In _his_ room, standing among _his_ multifarious possessions, in the act of pouring from _his_ coffee-pot. She was dressed in black--he noticed that. Instead of being arranged high upon her head, her marvellous hair hung in one massive plait down her back. She looked like a tall and beautiful school-girl. He had not seen her hair like that since the old days when he had been as one of the Carews. As he pushed open the door, she looked up; and for a moment they stood thus. She set down the coffee-pot, carefully and symmetrically, in the centre of the china stand provided for its reception--and the colour slowly left her face. “You have come back at last!” she said quite monotonously. It sounded like a remark made for the purpose of filling up an awkward silence. Then he entered the room, and mechanically closed the door behind him. She noticed the action, but did not move. He passed round the table, behind Aunt Judy's chair, and they shook hands conventionally. “Yes,” he said almost breathlessly; “I am back; you do not seem elated by the fact.” Suddenly she smiled--the smile that suggested, in some subtle way, a kitten. “Of course--I am glad ... to see you.” In a peculiar dreamy way she began to add milk to the coffee. It seemed as if this were mere play-acting, and not real life at all. “How is it that you are here?” he asked, with a broken, disjointed laugh. “You cannot imagine how strange an effect it was ... for me ... to come in and see you ... here--of all people.” She looked at him gravely, and moved a step towards him. “Aunt Judy is dead!” she explained; “and Aunt Hester is very ill. Mother is upstairs with them--_her_--now. I have just come from the room, where I have been since midnight.” She stopped, raised her hand to her hair as if recollecting something, and stood looking sideways out of the window. “There is something about you this morning,” he said, with a concentrated deliberation, “that brings back the old Prague days. I suppose it is that I have not seen your hair as you have it to-day--since then.” She turned quite away from his hungry gaze, looking out of the window.