“The argument of Mr. Peter Erwin, of St. Louis, before the Supreme Court of the United States in the now celebrated Snowden case is universally acknowledged by lawyers to have been masterly, and reminiscent of the great names of the profession in the past.  Mr. Erwin is not dramatic.  He appears to carry all before him by the sheer force of intellect, and by a kind of Lincolnian ability to expose a fallacy:  He is still a young man, self-made, and studied law under Judge Brice of St. Louis, once President of the National Bar Association, whose partner he is"....

Honora cut out the editorial and thrust it in her gown, and threw the newspaper is the fire.  She stood for a time after it had burned, watching the twisted remnants fade from flame colour to rose, and finally blacken.  Then she went slowly up the stairs and put on her hat and coat and veil.  Although a cloudless day, it was windy in the park, and cold, the ruffled waters an intense blue.  She walked fast.

She lunched with Mrs. Holt, who had but just come to town; and the light, like a speeding guest, was departing from the city when she reached her own door.

“There is a gentleman in the drawing-room, madam,” said the butler.  “He said he was an old friend, and a stranger in New York, and asked if he might wait.”

She stood still with presentiment.

“What is his name?” she asked.

“Mr. Erwin,” said the man.

Still she hesitated.  In the strange state in which she found herself that day, the supernatural itself had seemed credible.  And yet—­she was not prepared.

“I beg pardon, madam,” the butler was saying, “perhaps I shouldn’t—?”

“Yes, yes, you should,” she interrupted him, and pushed past him up the stairs.  At the drawing-room door she paused—­he was unaware of her presence.  And he had not changed!  She wondered why she had expected him to change.  Even the glow of his newly acquired fame was not discernible behind his well-remembered head.  He seemed no older—­and no younger.  And he was standing with his hands behind his back gazing in simple, silent appreciation at the big tapestry nearest the windows.

“Peter,” she said, in a low voice.

He turned quickly, and then she saw the glow.  But it was the old glow, not the new—­the light m which her early years had been spent.

“What a coincidence!” she exclaimed, as he took her hand.

“Coincidence?”

“It was only this morning that I was reading in the newspaper all sorts of nice things about you.  It made me feel like going out and telling everybody you were an old friend of mine.”  Still holding his fingers, she pushed him away from her at arm’s length, and looked at him.  “What does it feel like to be famous, and have editorials about one’s self in the New York newspapers?”

He laughed, and released his hands somewhat abruptly.

“It seems as strange to me, Honora, as it does to you.”