Win, in his father’s swivel chair, looked very small and insignificant. The wide window behind him let a flood of pale light over his bullet-shaped head with its thatch of limp, blond hair, and his thin shoulders bowed over the desk. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he looked up in answer to Mrs. Willers’ knock, and then, when he saw who it was, he smiled, for Win liked Mrs. Willers. She handed him the letter with the request that he give it to his mother that evening, and sat down in the chair beside him, facing the long white panes of the window, which the rain was beginning to lash. “My mother and you seem to be having a lively correspondence,” said Win, who had brought down Mrs. Shackleton’s letter some days before. “Yes, we’ve got an untractable young lady on our hands, and it’s a large order.” “Miss Moreau?” said the proprietor of _The Trumpet_. “My mother told me. She’s very independent, isn’t she?” “She’s a strange girl. You can tell your mother, as I’ve told her in this letter, that I don’t understand her at all. She’s got some idea in her head, but I can’t make it out.” “Mightn’t a girl just be independent?” said the young man, putting up a long, thin hand to press his glasses against his nose with a first and second finger. “Just independent, and nothing else?” “There’s no knowing what a girl mightn’t be, Mr. Shackleton,” Mrs. Willers responded gloomily. “I was one myself once, but it’s so long ago I’ve forgotten what it’s like; and, thank heaven, it’s a stage that’s soon passed.” It so happened that this little conversation set Win’s mind once more to thinking of the girl his father had been so determined to find and benefit. As he left _The Trumpet_ office, shortly after the withdrawal of Mrs. Willers, his mind was full of the queries the finding of the letters had aroused in it. The handsome girl he had seen that afternoon, three months ago, appeared before his mental vision, and this time as her face flashed out on him from the dark places of memory it had a sudden tantalizing suggestion of familiarity. The question came that so often teases us with the sudden glimpse of a vaguely recognized face: “Where have I seen it before?” Win walked slowly up Third Street meditating under a spread umbrella. It was raining hard now, a level downpour that beat pugnaciously on the city, which gleamed and ran rillets of water under the onslaught. People were scurrying away in every direction, women with umbrellas low against their heads, one hand gripping up their skirts, from beneath which came and went glimpses of muddy boots and wet petticoats. Loafers were standing under eaves, looking out with yellow, apathetic faces. The merchants of the quarter came to the doorways of the smaller shops that Win passed, and stood looking out and then up into the sky with musing smiles. It was a heavy rain, and no mistake.