It sounded, at length, but timidly.  Had he not been listening, he would not have perceived it.  Eve’s handling of the knocker was firmer than that, and in a different rhythm.  Apprehensive of disappointment, he hurried downstairs and opened the door to Patty Ringrose—­Patty alone.

With a shy but pleased laugh, her cheeks warm and her eyes bright, she jerked out her hand to him as in the old days.

“I know you won’t be glad to see me.  I’m so sorry.  I said I had better not come.”

“Of course I am glad to see you.  But where’s Eve?”

“It’s so unfortunate—­she has such a bad headache!” panted the girl.  “She couldn’t possibly come, and I wanted to stay with her, I said.  I should only disappoint you.”

“It’s a pity, of course; but I’m glad you came, for all that.”  Hilliard stifled his dissatisfaction and misgivings.  “You’ll think this a queer sort of place.  I’m quite alone here to-day.  But after you have rested a little we can go somewhere else.”

“Yes.  Eve told me you would be so kind as to take me to see things.  I’m not tired.  I won’t come in, if you’d rather——­”

“Oh, you may as well see what sort of a den I’ve made for myself.”

He led the way upstairs.  When she reached the top, Patty was again breathless, the result of excitement more than exertion.  She exclaimed at sight of the sitting-room.  How cosy it was!  What a scent from the flowers!  Did he always buy flowers for his room?  No doubt it was to please Eve.  What a comfortable chair!  Of course Eve always sat in this chair?

Then her babbling ceased, and she looked up at Hilliard, who stood over against her, with nervous delight.  He could perceive no change whatever in her, except that she was better dressed than formerly.  Not a day seemed to have been added to her age; her voice had precisely the intonations that he remembered.  After all, it was little more than half a year since they were together in Paris; but to Hilliard the winter had seemed of interminable length, and he expected to find Miss Ringrose a much altered person.

“When did this headache begin?” he inquired, trying to speak without over-much concern.

“She had a little yesterday, when she met me at the station.  I didn’t think she was looking at all well.”

“I’m surprised to hear that.  She looked particularly well when I saw her last.  Had you any trouble in making your way here?”

“Oh, not a bit.  I found the tram, just as Eve told me.  But I’m so sorry!  And a fine day too!  You don’t often have fine days here, do you, Mr. Hilliard?”

“Now and then.  So you’ve seen Dudley at last.  What do you think of it?”

“Oh, I like it!  I shouldn’t mind living there a bit.  But of course I like Birmingham better.”

“Almost as fine as Paris, isn’t it?”

“You don’t mean that, of course.  But I’ve only seen a few of the streets, and most of the shops are shut up to-day.  Isn’t it a pity Eve has to live so far off?  Though, of course, it isn’t really very far—­and I suppose you see each other often?”