“I suppose the old lady was getting anxious?” said he brightly (but in a low tone so that the old lady should not hear), as he shook hands with Rachel in the lobby.  He had recognized her in front of him up the lane—­had, in fact, nearly overtaken her; and she was standing at the open door when he mounted the steps.  She had had just time to prove to Mrs. Maldon, by a “He’s coming” thrown through the sitting-room doorway, that she had not waited for Louis Fores and walked up with him.

“Yes,” Rachel replied in the same tone, most deceitfully leaving him under the false impression that it was the old lady’s anxiety that had sent her out.  She had, then, emerged scathless in reputation from the indiscreet adventure!

The house was animated by the arrival of Louis; at once it seemed to live more keenly when he had crossed the threshold.  And Louis found pleasure in the house—­in the welcoming aspect of its interior, in Rachel’s evident excited gladness at seeing him, in her honest and agreeable features, and in her sheer girlishness.  A few minutes earlier he had been in the sordid and dreadful office.  Now he was in another and a cleaner, prettier world.  He yielded instantly and fully to its invitation, for he had the singular faculty of being able to cast off care like a garment.  He felt sympathetic towards women, and eager to employ for their contentment all the charm which he knew he possessed.  He gave himself, generously, in every gesture and intonation.

“Office, auntie, office!” he exclaimed, elegantly entering the parlour.  “Sack-cloth!  Ashes!  Hallo! where’s Julian?  Is he late too?”

When he had received the news about Julian Maldon he asked to see the telegram, and searched out its place of origin, and drew forth a pocket time-table, and remarked in a wise way that he hoped Julian would “make the connection” at Derby.  Lastly he predicted the precise minute at which Julian “ought” to be knocking at the front door.  And both women felt their ignorant, puzzled inferiority in these recondite matters of travel, and the comfort of having an omniscient male in the house.

Then slightly drawing up his dark blue trousers with an accustomed movement, he carefully sat down on the Chesterfield, and stroked his soft black moustache (which was estimably long for a fellow of twenty-three) and patted his black hair.

“Rachel, you didn’t fasten that landing window, after all!” said Mrs. Maldon, looking over Louis’ head at the lady companion, who hesitated modestly near the door.  “I’ve tried, but I couldn’t.”

“Neither could I, Mrs. Maldon,” said Rachel.  “I was thinking perhaps Mr. Fores wouldn’t mind—­”

She did not explain that her failure to fasten the window had been more or less deliberate, since, while actually tugging at the window, she had been visited by the sudden delicious thought:  “How nice it would be to ask Louis Fores to do this hard thing for me!”