Was he married? There was no hint of a wife in his letter. How much changed would she find him? Would the change in herself shock him greatly? There were women as old as she who were still spoken of as "young," but their lives had run on smoother lines than hers--and when he saw her last she had been twenty-two and sanguine. It seemed to her that he would meet a stranger. She trembled in the club on Wednesday afternoon, and began to hope that his choice would fall on "Thursday." She was told that he had come. She rose with an effort. A big man, with greying hair, approached her uncertainly. She smiled with stiff lips. "Mr. Humphreys," she faltered. And a voice that she didn't remember, a new deep voice that wasn't like Jack's at all, was saying, "Why, Miss Barton! This is very kind of you." "How d'ye do? So glad to see you again," she murmured. "Let--let us go and sit down." Her heart was thumping, and she felt a little deaf. "So--er Well, how does London look to you after such a long time? Are you home for good?" "No, about a couple of months. My home is on the other side now. Well, this is a real pleasure! I never expected--I was rather nervous about writing, but----" "It would have been too bad if you hadn't," she said. "Well, I thought I'd take my chance. Er--yes, London looks rather different. I managed to get lost in it the other day; I had to find a taxi to take me back. No taxis when I was here before!" "You take tea?" The alcove was very comfortable, and the long room was exquisite in all its tones. The beauty of the carpet, she felt, more than repaid her for that annual effort. And how deferential was the service! "A fine place," said Mr. Humphreys admiringly. "Yes, it's rather decent," she drawled; "they do one very well here. A club is one of the necessaries of life." "I suppose so." He was remembering the way her tea had been served in the boarding-house. "Wealth buys more in the old country than over there--you get more for your money than I do." "Do you have to rough it very badly?" Her tone was gentler. "Are you still in the same place?" "Well, I haven't known I was roughing it of recent years, but I don't see luxury like this in Manitoba. Not bad. And I've got a gramophone. Pretty rotten records, I'm afraid. Verdi is about the most classical of them." "Isn't it lovely, how Verdi reminds one?" she said. "If I hear Verdi, I'm about ten years old again, and--it's funny--I'm always in the same bow window, and it's always a summer's afternoon, though I suppose the organs used to come in the winter, too. Just as, if I hear that hymn with 'pilgrims of the night' in it, it's always the nursery, and the gas over the mantelpiece is lighted. Verdi gives me my childhood back. I hope to hear Verdi in heaven. You've nothing very dreadful to complain of, then? You aren't sorry you went?"