tures and the books. Mrs. Bankes and Rodney followed her.

She turned on the lights, and began directly in her low, pleasant voice:
"This table is my grandfather's writing-table. Most of the later poems
were written at it. And this is his pen--the last pen he ever used." She
took it in her hand and paused for the right number of seconds. "Here,"
she continued, "is the original manuscript of the 'Ode to Winter.' The
early manuscripts are far less corrected than the later ones, as you
will see directly.... Oh, do take it yourself," she added, as Mrs.
Bankes asked, in an awestruck tone of voice, for that privilege, and
began a preliminary unbuttoning of her white kid gloves.

"You are wonderfully like your grandfather, Miss Hilbery," the American
lady observed, gazing from Katharine to the portrait, "especially about
the eyes. Come, now, I expect she writes poetry herself, doesn't she?"
she asked in a jocular tone, turning to William. "Quite one's ideal of
a poet, is it not, Mr. Rodney? I cannot tell you what a privilege I feel
it to be standing just here with the poet's granddaughter. You must know
we think a great deal of your grandfather in America, Miss Hilbery.
We have societies for reading him aloud. What! His very own slippers!"
Laying aside the manuscript, she hastily grasped the old shoes, and
remained for a moment dumb in contemplation of them.

While Katharine went on steadily with her duties as show-woman, Rodney
examined intently a row of little drawings which he knew by heart
already. His disordered state of mind made it necessary for him to take
advantage of these little respites, as if he had been out in a high wind
and must straighten his dress in the first shelter he reached. His calm
was only superficial, as he knew too well; it did not exist much below
the surface of tie, waistcoat, and white slip.

On getting out of bed that morning he had fully made up his mind to
ignore what had been said the night before; he had been convinced, by
the sight of Denham, that his love for Katharine was passionate, and
when he addressed her early that morning on the telephone, he had meant
his cheerful but authoritative tones to convey to her the fact that,
after a night of madness, they were as indissolubly engaged as ever. But
when he reached his office his torments began. He found a letter from
Cassandra waiting for him. She had read his play, and had taken the
very first opportunity to write and tell him what she