ce."

"Yes, I know," he told her. "I made up my mind to take a long walk here
in the Park this morning, and I passed your house on my way out. You
see, I had to look up your address in the directory before writing.
Your house awed me, I confess, and the style is surprisingly good."

"But tell me," asked Laura, "you never speak of yourself, what have you
been doing since you went away?"

"Nothing. Merely idling, and painting a little, and studying some
thirteenth century glass in Avignon and Sienna."

"And shall you go back?"

"Yes, I think so, in about a month. So soon as I have straightened out
some little businesses of mine--which puts me in mind," he said,
glancing at his watch, "that I have an appointment at eleven, and
should be about it."

He said good-by and left her, and Laura cantered homeward in high
spirits. She was very glad that Corthell had come back. She had always
liked him. He not only talked well himself, but seemed to have the
faculty of making her do the same. She remembered that in the old days,
before she had met Jadwin, her mind and conversation, for
undiscoverable reasons, had never been nimbler, quicker, nor more
effective than when in the company of the artist.

Arrived at home, Laura (as soon as she had looked up the definition of
"pergola" in the dictionary) lost no time in telephoning to Mrs.
Cressler.

"What," this latter cried when she told her the news, "that Sheldon
Corthell back again! Well, dear me, if he wasn't the last person in my
mind. I do remember the lovely windows he used to paint, and how
refined and elegant he always was--and the loveliest hands and voice."

"He's to dine with us to-night, and I want you and Mr. Cressler to
come."

"Oh, Laura, child, I just simply can't. Charlie's got a man from
Milwaukee coming here to-night, and I've got to feed him. Isn't it too
provoking? I've got to sit and listen to those two, clattering
commissions and percentages and all, when I might be hearing Sheldon
Corthell talk art and poetry and stained glass. I declare, I never have
any luck."

At quarter to six that evening Laura sat in the library, before the
fireplace, in her black velvet dinner gown, cutting the pages of a new
novel, the ivory cutter as it turned and glanced in her hand, appearing
to be a mere prolongation of her slender fingers. But she was not
interested in the book, and from time to time glanced nervously at the
clock upon the mantel-shelf over her head.