of the writing--small, fine, legible, without trace of seminary
affectation. And his spirits actually rose when he observed that it
bore no coat-of-arms--not even a monogram.

At last, with more flourishes of folly, he put the note away in his
desk and inspected himself in the glass. To the credit of his modesty,
he was thinking not of his white tie--fifth that he had ruined in the
process of dressing--nor yet of the set of his coat. He was thinking
of Mrs. Paula Markham and the impression which these gauds and graces
might make upon her.

"What do you suppose she's like?" he asked inaudibly of the correct
vision in the glass.

He had exhausted all the possibilities--a fat, pretentious medium whom
Annette's mind transformed by the alchemy of old affection into a
presentable personage; a masculine and severe old woman with the
"spook" look in her eyes; a fluttering, affected _precieuse_,
concealing her quackery by chatter. Gradually as he thought on her, the
second of these hypotheses came to govern--he saw her as the severe and
masculine type. This being so, what tack should she take?

The correct vision in the glass vouchsafed no answer to this. His mood
persisted as his taxicab whirled him into the region which borders the
western edge of Central Park. The thing assumed the proportions of a
great adventure. No old preparation for battle, no old packings to
break into the unknown dark, had ever given him quite such a sense of
the high, free airs where romance blows. He was going on a mere
conventional call; but he was going also to high and thrilling
possibilities.