and went
into the flagged garden, where white tulips grew, he glanced up and saw
young Mrs. Waterlow standing looking out at the drawing-room window. Her
eyes met his in surprise, they had not seen each other for so long a
time; then, as lifting his hat he smiled at her, he thought he saw in
them a sudden pity and gravity. He did of course look so much more
battered than when she had last seen him. The nice, middle-aged maid let
him in--he was glad of that--and, as he followed her up the narrow
staircase, with its white, panelled walls, he wondered which
drawing-room it was to be, and felt his heart sink strangely at the
thought that perhaps, after all, Mrs. Waterlow had transplanted her
discipline to London.

But, no; like a soft gush of sunlight, like bells and clear, running
water, the first room greeted him in a medley of untraceable
associations. It was the first room, with the delicate cane-seated
chairs and settees, the red lacquer and the glass, all looking lovelier
than ever against the panelled white, all brighter, sweeter, happier
than in the rather dim room on the ground floor in Chislebridge. And
touches of green, like tiny flakes of vivid flame, went through it in
the leaves of the white azaleas that filled the jars and vases. He saw
it all, and he saw, as Mrs. Waterlow came toward him, that the white
pagoda stood on its former little black lacquer table in one of the
windows.

Mrs. Waterlow shook his hand and her eyes examined him.

"You have been ill. I was so sorry to hear," she said.

"Yes, I've been wretchedly ill; for years now, it seems," he replied.

They sat down before the fire. Old Mrs. Waterlow, she told him, was away
on a visit to Chislebridge, from which she was to return that evening at
six o'clock. It was only four. He had two hours before him, and he felt
that in them he was to be very happy. They talked and talked. He saw
that she liked him and expected him to stay on and talk. All the magic
and elation and sense of discovery and adventure was with him as on
their first encounter. She knew him, he found, so much better than he
could have guessed. She had read everything he had written. She
appreciated so finely; she even, with a further advance to acknowledged
friendship, criticized, with the precision and delicacy expressed in all
that she did. And the fact that she liked him so much, that she was
already so much his friend, gave him his right to let her see how much
he liked her.