The inhabitants of the houses in Bloomsbury Place were not prone to sitting at their front windows, accordingly; but this special afternoon, the weather being foggy, Aimée finding herself alone in the parlor, had left the fire just to look at this same fog, though it was by no means a novelty. The house was very quiet. 'Toinette was out, and so was Mollie, and Tod was asleep, lying upon a collection of cushions on the hearth-rug, with two fingers in his mouth, his round baby face turned up luxuriously to catch the warmth. The wise one was waiting for Mollie, who had gone out a few hours before to execute divers commissions of a domestic nature. “She might have been back in half the time,” murmured the family sage, who sat on the carpet, flattening her small features against the glass. “She might have done what she has to do in _less_ than half the time, but I knew how it would be when she went out. She is looking in at the shop windows and wishing for things. I wish she would n't. People stare at her so, and I don't wonder. I am sure I cannot help watching her myself, sometimes. She grows prettier every day of her life, and she is beginning to know that she does, too.” Five minutes after this the small face was drawn away from the window-pane with a sigh of relief. “There she is now. What a time she has been! Who is with her, I wonder? I cannot see whether it is Phil or Mr. Gowan, it is getting so dark. It must be Mr. Gowan. 'Toinette would be with them if it was Phil.” “Why, Mollie,” she exclaimed, when the door opened, “I saw somebody with you, and I thought it was Mr. Gowan. Why did n't he come in? Don't waken Tod.” Mollie came in rather hurriedly, and going to the fire knelt down before it, holding out her hands to warm them. Her cheeks were brilliant with color and her eyes were bright; altogether, she looked a trifle excited. “It was n't Mr. Gowan,” she answered. “Ugh! how cold it is,--not frosty, you know, but that raw sort of cold, Aimée. I would rather have the frost myself, would n't you?” But Aimée was not thinking of the weather. “Not Mr. Gowan!” she ejaculated. “Who was it, then?” Mollie crept nearer to the fire and gave another little shudder. “It was--somebody else,” she returned, with a triumphant little half-laugh. “Guess who!” “Who!” repeated Aimée. “Somebody else! It was not any one I know.” “It was somebody Phil knows.” The wise one arose and came to the fire herself. “It was some one taller than Brown!” “Brown!” echoed Mollie, with an air of supreme contempt. “He is _twice_ as tall. Brown is only about five feet high, and he wears an overcoat ten times too big for him, and it flaps--yes, it _flaps_ about his odious little heels. I should think it wasn't Brown. It was a gentleman.” The wise one regarded her pretty, scornful face dubiously. “Brown is n't so bad as all that implies, Mollie,” she said. “His coat is the worst part of him. But if it was n't Brown and it was n't Mr. Gowan, who was it?”