er pretty." As he spoke the words there flashed
through his mind the picture of Patty Vetch as he had seen her that
afternoon, in her red cape and her small hat with the red wings, against
the snowy hill under the overhanging bough of the sycamore. Was she
really pretty, or was it only the witchery of her surroundings? Now that
he was out of her presence the attraction had faded. He was still
smarting from the memory of that dancing figure.

"Well, it's a fine house," said the woman, "and it looks large for just
two people. I thank you for telling me."

The pathos of her words appealed to the generous chivalry of his nature.
He felt sorry for her and wondered if he might offer her money.

"I hope you found lodgings," he said.

"Yes, I've found a room near here--on Governor Street, I think they call
it."

"And you are not in want? You do not need any help?"

She shook her head while the rusty mourning veil shrouded her features.
"Not yet," she answered. "I'm not a beggar yet." Though her tone was not
well-bred, he realized that she was neither as uneducated nor as
degraded as he had at first believed.

"I am glad of that," he responded; and then lifting his hat again, he
hurried quickly away from her up the road beneath the few old linden
trees that were left of an avenue. Glancing back as he reached the
Capitol building, he saw her black figure moving cautiously over the
snow toward one of the gates of the Square.

"That was a nightmare," he thought, "and now for the pleasant dream.
I'll go to the old print shop and see my Cousin Corinna."

CHAPTER III

CORINNA OF THE OLD PRINT SHOP

As Stephan left the Square there floated before him a picture of the old
print shop in Franklin Street, where Corinna Page (still looking at
forty-eight as if she had stepped out of a portrait by Romney) sat amid
the rare prints which she never expected to sell. After an unfortunate
early marriage, her husband had been Kent Page, her first cousin, she
had accepted her recent widowhood, if not with relief, well, obviously
with resignation. For years she had wandered about the world with her
father, Judge Horatio Lancaster Page, who had once been Ambassador to
Great Britain. Now, having recently returned from France, she had
settled in a charming country house on the Three Chopt Road, and had
opened the ridiculous old print shop, a shop that never sold an
engraving, in a quaint place in Franklin Street. She had rented out