“You, leaving the garden of my house in Cairo, I standing by the fire,” he answered, closing his eyes for an instant. “It is what I saw also,” she said breathlessly. “It is what I saw and was thinking of that instant.” When, as though she must break away from the cords of feeling drawing her nearer and nearer to him, she said, with a little laugh, “Tell me again of my Chicago cousin? I have not had a letter for a year.” “Lacey, he is with me always. I should have done little had it not been for him. He has remarkable resource; he is never cast down. He has but one fault.” “What is that?” “He is no respecter of persons. His humour cuts deep. He has a wide heart for your sex. When leaving the court of the King of Abyssinia he said to his Majesty: ‘Well, good-bye, King. Give my love to the girls.’” She laughed again. “How absurd and childish he is! But he is true and able. And how glad you should be that you are able to make true friends, without an effort. Yesterday I met neighbour Fairley, and another little old Elder who keeps his chin in his collar and his eyes on the sky. They did little else but sing your praises. One might have thought that you had invented the world-or Hamley.” “Yet they would chafe if I were to appear among them without these.” He glanced down at the Quaker clothes he wore, and made a gesture towards the broadbrimmed hat reposing on a footstool near by. “It is good to see that you are not changed, not spoiled at all,” she remarked, smiling. “Though, indeed, how could you be, who always work for others and never for yourself? All I envy you is your friends. You make them and keep them so.” She sighed, and a shadow came into her eyes suddenly. She was thinking of Eglington. Did he make friends--true friends? In London--was there one she knew who would cleave to him for love of him? In England--had she ever seen one? In Hamley, where his people had been for so many generations, had she found one?