some time after the odor of violets made me ill.

We all met downstairs in the living room, quite informally, and
Dallas was banging away at the pianola, tramping the pedals with
the delicacy and feeling of a football center rush kicking a
goal. Mr. Harbison was standing near the fire, a little away from
the others, and he was all that Anne had said and more in
appearance. He was tall--not too tall, and very straight. And
after one got past the oddity of his face being bronze-colored
above his white collar, and of his brown hair being sun-bleached
on top until it was almost yellow, one realized that he was very
handsome. He had what one might call a resolute nose and chin,
and a pleasant, rather humorous, mouth. And he had blue eyes that
were, at that moment, wandering with interest over the lot of us.
Somebody shouted his name to me above the Tristan and Isolde
music, and I held out my hand.

Instantly I had the feeling one sometimes has, of having done
just that same thing, with the same surroundings, in the same
place, years before, I was looking up at him, and he was staring
down at me and holding my hand. And then the music stopped and he
was saying:

"Where was it?"

"Where was what?" I asked. The feeling was stronger than ever
with his voice.

"I beg your pardon," he said, and let my hand drop. "Just for a
second I had an idea that we had met before somewhere, a long