The two--good women, but wounded withal--coruscated subtle knowledge
all down the street.

Meantime the Doctor climbed the stairs. He was perfectly conscious
that he had been, in fact, both unkind and rude, even though his mood
did not incline him to take measure of the extent of his delinquency.
He knew equally that he should presently have to write a note of
apology--and that it would not do an atom of good, _Tant pis_. He
rang at the door of the daffodil-room, and it was opened by the tall
girl whose eyes had hurt him that morning. They did not hurt him now,
but enveloped him with a keen and soft regard that left no question
unanswered. In another moment she had put out a firm hand and drawn
him over the threshold in its clasp.

"Don't speak,--don't try to say a word! There!" She had taken from him
his hat and gloves and pushed forward a low chair in front of the
fire, all in one capable movement. "What is it? Tea? Coffee? A glass
of wine?"

"_Music_!" answered the Doctor, raising two haggard eyes, with
the exhausted air of an animal taking shelter.

The girl turned away her own and walked towards the piano, stopping on
the way, however, to push forward a little table set forth with a
steaming tea-urn and cups, matches and a tray, and to lift to its
farther edge a bowl of heavy-scented violets. Her every motion was
full of ministry, as devoid of fuss.

The room was low, broad, and large, and full of books, flowers, low