Now she gave him both hands.

“It is so kind of you, dear Colonel Arran!  It would not be a home-coming without you—­” And glancing into the hall, nodded radiantly to the assembled servants—­her parents’ old and privileged and spoiled servants gathered to welcome the young mistress to her own.

“Oh—­and there’s Missy!” she said, as an inquiring “meow!” sounded close to her skirts.  “You irresponsible little thing—­I suppose you have more kittens.  Has she, Susan?”

“Five m’m,” said Susan drily.

“Oh, dear, I suppose it can’t be avoided.  But we mustn’t drown any, you know.”  And with one hand resting on Colonel Arran’s arm she began a tour of the house to inspect the new improvements.

Later they sat together amid the faded splendours of the southern drawing-room, where sunshine regilded cornice and pier glass, turned the lace curtains to nets of gold, and streaked the red damask hangings with slanting bars of fire.

Shiftless old Jonas shuffled in presently with the oval silver tray, ancient decanters, and seedcakes.

And here, over their cakes and Madeira, she told him about her month’s visit to the Craigs’; about her life in the quaint and quiet city, the restful, old-fashioned charm of the cultivated circles on Columbia Heights and the Hill; the attractions of a limited society, a little dull, a little prim, pedantic, perhaps provincially simple, but a society caring for the best in art, in music, in literature, instinctively recognising the best although the best was nowhere common in the city.

She spoke of the agreeable people she had met—­unobtrusive, gentle-mannered folk whose homes may have lacked such Madeira and silver as this, but lacked nothing in things of the mind.

She spoke of her very modest and temporary duties in church work there, and in charities; told of the advent of the war news and its effect on the sister city.

And at last, casually, but without embarrassment, she mentioned Berkley.

Colonel Arran’s large hand lay along the back of the Virginia sofa, fingers restlessly tracing and retracing the carved foliations supporting the horns of plenty.  His heavy, highly coloured head was lowered and turned aside a little as though to bring one ear to bear on what she was saying.

“Mr. Berkley seems to be an—­unusual man,” she ventured.  “Do you happen to know him, Colonel Arran?”

“Slightly.”

“Oh.  Did you know his parents?”

“His mother.”

“She is not living, I believe.”

“No.”

“Is his father living?”

“I—­don’t know.”

“You never met him?”

Colonel Arran’s forefinger slowly outlined the deeply carved horn of plenty.

“I am not perfectly sure that I ever met Mr. Berkley’s father.”

She sat, elbows on the table, gazing reflectively into space.

“He is a—­curious—­man.”