Mrs. Royce was very much pleased to see her pet, Miss Moran, return. She was well disposed toward Mr. Houseman, too, and willingly agreed to put him up for a few days. She set to work at once to cook a good lunch for them, but she did not hum under her breath, as was her usual habit. In fact, she was greatly perplexed and worried. When her guests were seated at the table, she retired, leaving them alone; but she did not go very far. She remained close to the door, so that she could look through the crack. She observed that Miss Moran seemed very lively and cheerful with this newcomer—though she had been quite as lively and cheerful with Captain Grey. “Well, I don’t know, I’m sure!” said Mrs. Royce to herself, with a sigh. “It beats _me_!” For the question which so troubled her was—which young man was _the_ young man? “Both of ’em as nice, polite young fellers as you’d want to see,” she repeated. “T’ other one’s handsomer, but he’s kind of foreign-like and gloomy. This one’s got more gumption. The way he walked in here, smart as a whip, and asked for Miss Moran, an’ when I says she’s gone to visit the Queltons, why, off he went, after her! I like a man with gumption!” So did Miss Moran. Charles Houseman seemed to her the only living, vigorous creature in a world of ghosts, the only one whom she could really understand. There were no shadowy corners about him. He was altogether honest, direct, and uncomplicated. He had no tact and no caution. He had come now, in the midst of this wretched tangle, and she completely believed that he would cut the Gordian knot. He had suggested that they should let the subject drop for a time. “I think I’ve got the facts straight,” he said; “and now I want to think them over a bit. Let’s take a walk, and talk about something else.” Lexy agreed to the entire program. If she was tired, she either didn’t know it, or she forgot it in the joy of this beautifully careless companionship. She could say exactly what came into her head to Charles Houseman. He understood her. He was interested in every word she spoke, and, what is more, she was aware of the profound admiration that underlay his interest. He thought she was wonderful, and that made her strangely happy. “Do you know,” he said, “the first time I saw you, there in the park, I—I liked the way you talked to me!” “How?” asked Lexy, with great interest. “I thought I must have seemed awfully irritating and mysterious.” He grinned. “You were awfully mad when I spoke to you,” he said; “but I liked that. I don’t know—somehow you made me think of Joan of Arc.” “Me?” cried Lexy. “With freckles, and such a temper? You couldn’t imagine me listening to angels, could you?” “Yes,” he said, “I could.” She glanced at him to see if he was laughing, but he was not. His eyes met hers with a quiet and steady look.