I looked them over as she handed the volumes out to me. I had read a good many books in which she was interested. We began to discuss them, casually at first, and then eagerly. An hour or more must have slipped away. At last I looked at the clock and sprang up. “You must have some tea,” she said, with her hand on the bell. “Please do not hurry away.” I hesitated, but she seemed to take my consent for granted, and I suffered myself to be persuaded. “Come and see my den while they bring it.” She opened a door on the left hand of the hall, and I passed by her side into a large room of irregular shape, from which French windows led out on to the trim little lawn. The walls were almost lined with books--my father’s library did not hold so many. A writing table drawn up to the window was covered with loose sheets of paper and works of reference turned upon their faces. For the rest the room was a marvel of delicate coloring and refined femininity. There were plenty of cosy chairs, and three-legged tables, with their burden of dainty china, rare statuettes, and many vases of flowers, mostly clustering yellow roses. But what absorbed my attention after my rapid glance around was the fact that Mr. Bruce Deville was sitting in a very comfortable chair near the window, reading one of the loose sheets of paper which he had taken from the desk. He rose from his feet at the sound of the opening of the door, but he did not immediately look up. He spoke to her, and I scarcely recognized his voice. His gruffness was gone! It was mellow and good-humored. “Marcia! Marcia! Why can’t you leave poor Harris alone?” he said. “You will drive him out of his senses if you sling Greek at him like this. You women are so vindictive!” “If you will condescend to turn round,” she answered, smiling, “I shall be glad to know how you got in here, and what are you doing with my manuscript?” He looked up, and the sheet fluttered from his fingers. He regarded me with undiluted astonishment. “Well, I came in at the window,” he answered. “I was in a hurry to escape getting wet through. I had no idea that you had a visitor!” I glanced towards her. She was in no way discomposed or annoyed. “I am not inclined to walk this afternoon,” she said. “Will you come down after dinner, about nine? I want to see you, but not just now.” He nodded, and took up his cap. At the window he looked back at me curiously. For a moment he seemed about to speak. He contented himself, however, with a parting bow, to which I responded. Directly he got outside the garden he took his pipe from his pocket and lit it. The incident did not seem to have troubled her in any way. She pointed out some of the treasures of her room, elegant little trifles, collected in many countries of the world, but I am afraid I was not very attentive. “Is Mr. Deville a relation of yours?” I asked, rather abruptly.