I rose from behind the desk with some confused, trivial thought that I
ought to have spent part of the afternoon getting my hair cut.

I had had but a glimpse of the new comer in her flight across the floor; I
knew she had scarlet lips and shining eyes; that youth and joy and
unimagined beauty had entered with her like a burst of sunlight and
flooded the room. I felt, rather than saw, that she had turned from the
window and was looking at me, curiously at first, then smiling. Her smile
had bewildered me when she opened the door; it was a soft, flashing light
that shone from her face and blessed the air. She seemed surrounded by an
aureole.

But she--how could this wonderful girl know me?--she surely was smiling!
She was coming towards me. She was putting out her hands. That glorious
voice was speaking.

"John! Is it you? I'm so glad!" it said.

Had I read about her? Had I seen her picture? Had Helen described her in a
letter? Was she Cadge? No; not altogether a stranger; somewhere before I
had seen--or dreamed--

"John," she persisted. "Why didn't you write? I thought you were coming
next week. Did you plan to surprise me?"

Miss Reid must have made a mistake, I felt; I must explain that I was
waiting for Helen. But I could not speak; I could only gape, choking and
giddy. I did not speak when the bright vision seemed to take the hands I
had not offered. I could feel the blood beat in my neck. I could not
think; and yet I knew that a real woman stood before me, albeit unlike all