As Alexina followed her mother's eyes she flushed scarlet and turned away
her head. A young man was coming up the avenue. He was a very gallant
figure, moderately tall and very straight; he held his head high, his
features were strong in outline. But the noticeable thing about him at
this early hour of the morning and in the wake of a great disaster was his
consummate grooming.

"That--that--" stammered Alexina, "is Mr. Dwight. I met him last night at
the Hofers'."

The young man raised his hat and came forward quickly. "I hope you will
forgive me," he said with a charming deference, "but I couldn't resist
coming to see if you were all right. So many people are frightened of
fire--in their own houses."

"Mr. Dwight--my mother--"

He lifted his hat again. Mrs. Groome in her chastened mood regarded
him favorably, and for the moment without suspicion. At least he was a
gentleman; but who could he be?

"Dwight," she murmured. "I do not know the name. Were you born here?"

"I was born in Utica, New York. My parents came here when I was quite
young. We--always lived rather quietly."

"But you go about now? To all these parties?"

"Oh, yes. I like to dance after the day's work. But I am not what you would