"By Jove!" muttered Graham. "Aunt Mayburn is half right, I believe. A
man must have the pulse of an anchorite to look often at such a vision
as that and remain untouched. One might easily create a divinity out
of such a creature, and then find it difficult not to worship. I could
go away now and make her my ideal, endowing her with all impossible
attributes of perfection. Very probably fuller acquaintance will prove
that she is made of clay not differing materially from that of other
womankind. I envy her correspondent, however, and would be glad if I
could write a letter that would bring such an expression to her face.
Well, I am reconnoitring true enough, and had better not be detected
in the act;" and he stepped rapidly forward.

She recognized him with a piquant little nod and smile. The letter was
folded instantly, and a moment later she opened the door for him
herself, saying, "Since I have seen you and you have come on so kind
an errand I have dispensed with the formality of sending a servant to
admit you."

"Won't you shake hands as a further reward?" he asked. "You will find
me very mercenary."

"Oh, certainly. Pardon the oversight. I should have done so without
prompting since it is so long since we have met."

"And having known each other so long also," he added in the same light
vein, conscious meantime that he held a hand that was as full of
vitality as it was shapely and white.

"Indeed," she replied; "did last evening seem an age to you?"