?"

"Just in, sir--the 2.45 from London, it must be."

"How does she look?"

"Much the same as usual, sir--a little thinner in the face perhaps."

I looked at Loft; he was grinning. So, I suppose, was I. "This is good,
Loft."

"You may say that, sir!"

"Did she come alone?"

"No, sir. Her maid--a Frenchwoman, I think, sir--and a young lady. If
she'd brought twenty, she'd have found the house all ready for them."

"I'm sure she would. Tell her I'll come up in half an hour."

Her coming transformed everything for me; it seemed to put life into the
place, life into the big dull house on the hill, life into my little
den, life into that summer's day. It was the breaking of a long frost,
the awakening from a stupor. The coming that I had always believed in
began to seem incredible only now, when it had happened; incredible it
seemed that by just walking up the hill I could see Jenny again and hear
her voice. Absence and silence had rendered her so distant to sight or
sound, so intangible and remote. My last clear memory of her was still
at Hatcham Ford--as she asked Fillingford for the loan of his carriage,
and, with "God bless you, Austin," vanished into the night. A man can, I
suppose, get on without anyone, if he must; but he cannot always make
out how he has managed to do it.

I found her sitting in her old place in the big drawing-room; she
wore--whether by purpose or not what was in effect slight mourning, a
white summer frock with touches of black. Yes, her face was a little
thinner, but it had not lost its serenity. She was less a girl, more a
woman--but not a woman prematurely aged.

"Dear Austin!" she said, as I kissed the hand she held out to me.
"You've waited a long while--here I am at last! You've become famous in
the interval--yes, you have. I've seen your book, and I wish Leonard
could have read it. He'd have liked it. But though you're famous, still
you waited for me!"

"I don't think you expected me to do anything else."

She smiled at me. "Perhaps not. But, do you know, I'm afraid you've done
something else than grow famous. Have you grown into an old bachelor?
You look rather like it."

"I expect I have," said I ruefully, and with an anxious gaze at my coat.
"It's rather an old coat, isn't it?"

"And the knees of your trousers!" pursued Jenny remorselessly.

They were atrocious--there was no denying it. "There's been nobody to
dress for. I'll order a new suit to-morrow."

"Things beg