"But I do," Angela answered. "As for you, I shall call you by your first
name. Kate, as if you were a French maid. I like it better than McGinnis."

"Thank you, so do I, ma'am. But it's me Tim has the fine name, which he'll
give me when the right time comes. It's Moriarty, and to my mind there's
none with more music in it. Oh, if ye only knew how happy ye've made me! I
was afraid me name would be as black in yer eyes as the cat, so that's why
I broke it to ye gently, and now I'm rewarded for everything."

Angela laughed again. "I fancied I was all alone in the world," she said
to herself, "and here I am collecting a family."

She had luncheon brought to her own sitting-room, when Kate had put away
everything and gone. Quantities of flowers she ordered, too--American
Beauty roses, which looked extraordinarily intelligent and companionable,
she thought. Then, most of the afternoon she spent in poring over maps,
planning what she called her "pilgrimage"; and a little before six she was
ready to go down and buy her ticket West, at the travel bureau which, she
heard, existed in the hotel. Afterward she meant to take a stroll, and see
Fifth Avenue by sunset.

Not once since entering her rooms had she consciously remembered the
"bronze statue." In the marble hall, however, she recalled him, and
thought most likely he was out amusing himself and seeing New York. But
no; there he was, sitting rather dejectedly in a large rocking-chair; and
as her eyes found him, his found her. Instantly his whole aspect changed.
The statue came to life. His listless expression brightened to the
puzzling intentness with which he had looked at her in the morning. As she
passed near him, on her way to the travel bureau, he got up and stood like