"I've no doubt of it," she laughed. "Won't you come in? I'd like to tell
you all about it."

"I also prepared to make excuses for not stopping," I said, "and thought
up various kinds of urgent business, such as buying a new snow shovel to
use next winter, but after making these excuses I intended to stop--if
I were sufficiently urged."

"You are more than urged: you are commanded."

As I followed her up the walk she said earnestly:

"Will you do me a favour? When you come in will you tell me the first
impression my living-room gives you? No second thoughts. Tell me
instantly."

"I'll do it." I said, my mind leaping eagerly to all manner of
mysterious surprises.

At the centre of the room she turned toward me and with a sweeping
backward motion of the arms, made me a bow--a strong figure instinct
with confident grace: a touch of gray in the hair, a fleeting look of
old sadness about the eyes.

"Now, David Grayson," she said, "quick!"

It was not that the room itself was so remarkable as that it struck me
as being confusingly different from the heavily comfortable rooms of the
old Starkweather house with their crowded furnishings, their overloaded
mantels, their plethoric bookcases.