“I’ve been that worried about you I couldn’t set still long at a time, and Bettina’s been up three times to see that your fire was burning all right.  I knew you didn’t have your umbrella or overshoes.  It’s a wonder you ain’t froze stiff.  I’ll bring your tea right up.”

“I’ve had tea, thank you.”  I held out first one foot and then the other to the blazing coals, and from the soles of my shoes came curling steam.  “It’s a wonderful storm.  I’d like to walk ten miles in it.  I don’t know why you were worried.  I’m all right.”

“I know you are, but”—­she poked the fire—­“but I wish you wouldn’t go so hard.  For near two weeks you haven’t stopped a minute.  You can’t stand going like that.  I wish I’d known where to find you.  Mr. Thorne was here this afternoon.  He was very anxious to see you.”

“Mr. who?” I turned sharply, then put my hands behind me to hide their sudden twisting.  I was cold and tired, and the only human being in all the world I wanted to see was Selwyn.  It was intolerable, this tormenting something that was separating us.  “When was he here?” I asked, and leaned against the mantel.

“He came about three, but he waited half an hour.  He didn’t say much, but he was powerful put out about your not being home.  He couldn’t wait any longer, as he had to catch a train—­the four-thirty, I think.”

“Where was he going?” I sat down in the big wing-chair and the fingers of my hands interlaced.  “Did he say where he was going?”

“He didn’t mention the place, just said he had to go away and might be gone some time.  He’ll write, I reckon.  He was awful disappointed at not seeing you.  He asked me—­” Mrs. Mundy, on her knees, unbuttoned my shoes and drew them off.  “Your feet are near ’bout frozen, and no wonder.  Your stockings are wet clean through, and I’m letting you sit here in them when I promised him I’d see you didn’t kill yourself doing these very things.  You just put your feet on the fender while I get some dry clothes.  He says to me, says he:  ’Mrs. Mundy, the one human being she gives no thought to is herself, and will you please take care of her?  She don’t understand’”—­

“Oh, I do understand!” My voice was wearily protesting.  “The one thing men don’t want women to do is to understand.  They want us to be sweet and pretty—­and not understand.  Selwyn talks as if I were a child.  I am perfectly able to take care of myself.”

“Maybe you are, but you don’t do it—­least-ways, not always.  I promised him I wouldn’t let you wear yourself out, and I promised him—­”

“What?”

“That I wouldn’t let you go too far.  He says you’ve lost your patience with people, specially women, who think it’s not their business to bother with things that—­that aren’t nice, and you’re apt to go to the other extreme and forget how people talk.”

“About some things they don’t talk enough.  Did—­did he leave any message for me?”