space. On the one chair in this oasis, the somber gentleman seated
himself.

He had a fancy, as he sat there waiting, that neither he nor this room
were in accord with the things that were going on in the big house.
Outside of the closed door the radiant guests were still ascending the
stairway on shining wings of light. He could hear the music of their
laughter, and the deeper note of men's voices, rising and growing
fainter in a sort of transcendent harmony.

When the door was finally opened, it was done quickly and was shut
quickly, and the girl who had entered laughed breathlessly as she
turned to him.

"Oh, you must forgive me--I've kept you waiting?"

If their meeting had been in Sherwood forest, he would have known her
at once for a good comrade; if he had met her in the Garden of
Biaucaire, he would have known her at once for more than that. But,
being neither a hero of ballad nor of old romance, he knew only that
here was a girl different from the silken ladies who had ascended the
stairs. Here was an air almost of frank boyishness, a smile of
pleasant friendliness, with just enough of flushing cheek to show
womanliness and warm blood.

Even her dress was different. It was simple almost to the point of
plainness. Its charm lay in its glimmering glistening sheen, like the
inside of a shell. Its draperies were caught up to show slender feet
in low-heeled slippers. A quaint cap of silver tissue held closely the
waves of thick fair hair. Her eyes were like the sea in a storm--deep