“Not at all,” he said, ruffling a little within, “I shall find plenty of time for my friends this winter.”  Deliberately he emphasized the word.  “I hope nothing has happened to change our—­friendship.  Or does Berkeley Center seem primitive and far away?”

For the first time that quality which he was calling in his mind her “society shell” seemed to melt away from her.  She had kept her eyelids half closed; now they opened full.

“I am living on the memory of it,” she said.

Here was his opening.  A thousand incoherences rushed to his lips—­and stopped there.  For another change came over her.  Those lids, like curtains drawn by stealth over what must not be revealed, sank half-way over her eyes.  An impalpable stiffening ran over her figure.  She became as a flower done in glass.

Simultaneously, an uneasiness as definite as a shadow, fell across his spirit.  He became conscious of a presence behind him.  Involuntarily he turned.

A woman was standing in the doorway leading to the hall.

An instant she looked at Blake and an instant he looked at her.  What she gained from her scrutiny showed in no change of expression.  What he gained showed only in a quick flutter of the eyelids.  He had, in fact, taken an impression of mental power as startling as a sudden blow in the face.  She had a magnificent physique, preserved splendidly into the very heart of middle age; yet her foot had made no sound in her approach.  Her black velvet draperies trailed heavy on the floor, yet they produced not the ghost of a rustle.  Jet-black hair coiled in ropes, yet wisped white above the temples; light gray eyes, full and soft, yet with a steady look of power—­all this came in the process of rising, of stepping forward to clasp a warm hand which lingered just long enough, in hearing Annette say in tones suddenly dead of their boyish energy: 

“Aunt Paula, let me introduce Dr. Blake.”  With one ample motion, Mrs. Markham seated herself.  She turned her light eyes upon him.  He had a subconscious impression of standing before two searchlights.

“My niece has told me much about Dr. Blake,” she said in a voice which, like Annette’s, showed every intonation of culture; “I can’t thank you enough for being kind to my little girl.  So good in you to bother about her when”—­Aunt Paula gave the effect of faltering, but her smile was peculiarly gracious—­“when there were no other men nearer her own age.”

[Illustration:  HE HAD TAKEN AN IMPRESSION OF MENTAL POWER AS STARTLING AS A SUDDEN BLOW IN THE FACE]

Curiously, there floated into Blake’s mind the remark which Annette made that first day on the train—­“I should think you were about twenty-eight—­and that, according to ‘Peter Ibbertson,’ is about the nicest age.”  Well, Annette at least regarded him as a contemporary!  He found himself laughing with perfect composure—­“Yes, that’s the trouble with these quiet country towns.  There never are any interesting young men.”