"Who's there?" she asked quietly.

Her voice was low and clear as the reed of a flute, but all sounds had the
quality of music at that instant of release.

I was nonplussed for the moment. I ought to have taken up the key of high
romance. She deserved it. Instead of that I dropped to the awful
commonplaces of a man in evening dress and a light overcoat standing in
the rain talking to a stranger.

"I came up with Mr. Jervaise, Mr. Frank Jervaise," I explained. "He--he
wants to see you. Shall I tell him you're there?"

"All serene, I'm here," whispered the voice of Jervaise at my elbow, and
then he cleared his throat and spoke up at the window.

"Rather an upset down at the Hall, Miss Banks; about Brenda," he said.
"Might we come in a minute?"

"It's rather late, isn't it?" the vision returned--it wasn't only the ease
of the silence, she had a delicious voice--and added rather mischievously,
"It's raining, isn't it?"

"Like anything," Jervaise said, and ducked his head and hunched his
shoulders, as if he had suddenly remembered the possible susceptibility of
his exposed face.

"Is it so very important?" the soft, clear voice asked, still, I thought,
with a faint undercurrent of raillery.