now what he thought, but
who, however wrongly, did it because of me. If only I had not told him!
I ought never to have said a word. Never! That door slams the loudest.
It wakes me. It is slamming all the time."

"That too shall pass."

Cassy doubted it. The door and the noise of it hurt. Her eyes filled.
Yet, too sensitive to weep at anybody, even at an inkbeast, she stood
up, went to the window and, while reabsorbing her tears, looked, or
affected to look, at a lean stripe of blue sky.

Meditatively Jones considered her. "Fine day for a walk."

It was as though he had offered her a handkerchief. Tearful no longer,
but annoyed, she turned and sat down.

"You seem very original."

"It is absentmindedness, I think. I meant to ask, are you ever down near
the Stock Exchange?"

"That is where Mr. Lennox goes, isn't it?"

"There are others that frequent the neighbourhood. Among them is a
deacon named Dunwoodie."

"Isn't he the lawyer who acted for Mr. Lennox?"

"Now you mention it, I believe he is. Anyway, I wonder if you would care
to have him act for you?"

Cassy crossed her hands. "I don't understand you."

"For a moment or two, he didn't either. Then he said he would like to
see you. That was an hour ago. I have just come from his office."

"But what in the world does he want of me? Everything is over now, isn't
it? Or are there more doors? Really, if there are, I don't think I can
stand it. I don't think I can, Mr. Jones."

"Yes, but there are doors that don't slam, doors that are closed and
locked and barred. Sometimes there is romance behind them, sometimes
there are santal-wood boxes crammed with rubies; sometimes there are
secrets, sometimes there are landscapes of beckoning palms. One never
quite knows what there is behind closed doors. He may open one or two
for you. Wouldn't it interest you to let him try?"

Cassy's eyelids had been a trifle tremulous, in her under-lip there had
been also a little uncertainty. But at the vistas which the novelist
dangled at her, she succeeded in looking, as she could look,
immeasurably remote.

"That sort of thing is chorus-girl!"

Blankly Jones stared. "What sort of thing?"

"Why, you want me to bring an action. I will do nothing of the kind.
Even if he were living, I would rather be dead. Besides, it was all my
fault. I ought to have known better."

"Better than what?" enquired the novelist, who now had got his bearings.

"Mr. Jones, I told you all abou