It was behind that curtain that these unreasoning questions usually attacked him, when his giant, wavering shadow had died upon the wall and the faint smell of the extinguished lamp went with him to his bed; or when he waked before any sign of dawn.  In the mornings all was cheerful and wonted—­the question had not before attacked him among his red and blue plush spreads, his golden oak and ebony cases, of a sunshiny morning.

A step at his door set him flying.  He wanted passionately to sell a piano.

“Well!” he cried, when he saw his visitor.

It was Lulu, in her dark red suit and her tilted hat.

“Well!” she also said, and seemed to have no idea of saying anything else.  Her excitement was so obscure that he did not discern it.

“You’re out early,” said he, participating in the village chorus of this bright challenge at this hour.

“Oh, no,” said Lulu.

He looked out the window, pretending to be caught by something passing, leaned to see it the better.

“Oh, how’d you get along last night?” he asked, and wondered why he had not thought to say it before.

“All right, thank you,” said Lulu.

“Was he—­about the letter, you know?”

“Yes,” she said, “but that didn’t matter.  You’ll be sure,” she added, “not to say anything about what was in the letter?”

“Why, not till you tell me I can,” said Cornish, “but won’t everybody know now?”

“No,” Lulu said.

At this he had no more to say, and feeling his speculation in his eyes, dropped them to a piano scarf from which he began flicking invisible specks.

“I came to tell you good-bye,” Lulu said.

“Good-bye!”

“Yes.  I’m going off—­for a while.  My satchel’s in the bakery—­I had my breakfast in the bakery.”

“Say!” Cornish cried warmly, “then everything wasn’t all right last night?”

“As right as it can ever be with me,” she told him.  “Oh, yes.  Dwight forgave me.”

“Forgave you!”

She smiled, and trembled.

“Look here,” said Cornish, “you come here and sit down and tell me about this.”

He led her to the folding table, as the only social spot in that vast area of his, seated her in the one chair, and for himself brought up a piano stool.  But after all she told him nothing.  She merely took the comfort of his kindly indignation.

“It came out all right,” she said only.  “But I won’t stay there any more.  I can’t do that.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“In Millton yesterday,” she said, “I saw an advertisement in the hotel—­they wanted a chambermaid.”

“Oh, Miss Bett!” he cried.  At that name she flushed.  “Why,” said Cornish, “you must have been coming from Millton yesterday when I saw you.  I noticed Miss Di had her bag—­” He stopped, stared.

“You brought her back!” he deduced everything.