She addressed the janitor with anxious courtesy:

"Will you ask him to come up?"

With her hand on the half-open door, she waited. If it should be some
tradesman, she would speak with him there. She listened. Up the steps,
from flight to flight, she could hear the feet of a man mounting like a
deliberate good walker. He reached her floor. He approached her door and
she stepped out to confront him. A gentleman stood before her with an
unmistakable air of feeling himself happy in his mission. For a moment
he forgot to state this mission, startled by the group of the two. His
eyes passed from one to the other: the picture they made was an unlooked
for revelation of life's harmony, of nature's sacredness.

"Is this Mrs. Truesdale?" he asked with appreciative deference.

She stepped back.

"I am Mrs. Truesdale," she replied in a way to remind him of his
intrusion; and not discourteously she partly closed the door and waited
for him to withdraw. But he was not of a mind to withdraw; on the
contrary, he stood stoutly where he was and explained:

"As I crossed the park this morning I happened to hear a few notes of a
voice that interested me. I train the voice, Madam. I teach certain
kinds of music. I took the liberty of asking the owner of the voice
where he lived, and I have taken the further liberty of coming to see
whether I may speak with you on that subject--about his voice."