city, and since two or three other ladies had followed her example, it had
come to be regarded as a perfectly harmless idiosyncrasy for which she
could not properly be blamed. The people who came to see her were chiefly
men, except, of course, on the inevitable Monday.

A day or two before Christmas, then, Mrs. Sam Wyndham was at home in the
afternoon. The snow lay thick and hard outside, and the sleigh bells
tinkled unceasingly as the sleighs slipped by the window, gleaming and
glittering in the deep red glow of the sunset. The track was well beaten
for miles away, down Beacon Street and across the Milldam to the country,
and the pavements were strewn with ashes to give a foothold for
pedestrians.

For the frost was sharp and lasting. But within, Mrs. Wyndham sat by the
fire with a small table before her, and one companion by her side, for
whom she was pouring tea.

"Tell me all about your summer, Mr. Vancouver," said she, teasing the
flame of the spirit-lamp into better shape with a small silver instrument.

Mr. Pocock Vancouver leaned back in his corner of the sofa and looked at
the fire, then at the window, and finally at his hostess, before he
answered. He was a pale man and slight of figure, with dark eyes, and his
carefully brushed hair, turning gray at the temples and over his forehead,
threw his delicate, intelligent face into relief.

"I have not done much," he answered, rather absently, as though trying to
find something interesting in his reminiscences; and he watched Mrs.
Wyndham as she filled a cup. He was not the least anxious to talk, it
seemed, and he had an air of being thoroughly at home.