Powell Street, that happy hunting-ground of my youth, had changed its
character, become contracted and unfamiliar, sooty. The McAlerys and
other older families who had not decayed with the neighbourhood were
rapidly deserting it, moving out to the new residence district known
as "the Heights." I came to the Willett House. That, too, had an air of
shabbiness,--of well-tended shabbiness, to be sure; the stone steps had
been scrupulously scrubbed, but one of them was cracked clear across,
and the silver on the polished name-plate was wearing off; even the act
of pulling the knob of a door-bell was becoming obsolete, so used had
we grown to pushing porcelain buttons in bright, new vestibules. As I
waited for my summons to be answered it struck me as remarkable that
neither Nancy nor her father had been contaminated by the shabbiness
that surrounded them.

She had managed rather marvellously to redeem one room from the
old-fashioned severity of the rest of the house, the library behind
the big "parlour." It was Nancy's room, eloquent of her daintiness and
taste, of her essential modernity and luxuriousness; and that evening,
as I was ushered into it, this quality of luxuriousness, of being
able to shut out the disagreeable aspects of life that surrounded
and threatened her, particularly impressed me. She had not lacked
opportunities to escape. I wondered uneasily as I waited why she had
not embraced them. I strayed about the room. A coal fire burned in the
grate, the red-shaded lamps gave a subdued but cheerful light; some
impulse led me to cross over to the windows and draw aside the heavy
hangings. Dusk was gathering over that garden, bleak and frozen now,
where we had romped together as children. How queer the place seemed!
How shrivelled! Once it had had the wide range of a park. There, still
weathering the elements, was the old-fashioned latticed summer-house,
but the fruit-trees that I recalled as clouds of pink and white were
gone.... A touch of poignancy was in these memories. I dropped the
curtain, and turned to confront Nancy, who had entered noiselessly.

"Well, Hugh, were you dreaming?" she said.

"Not exactly," I replied, embarrassed. "I was looking at the garden."

"The soot has ruined it. My life seems to be one continual struggle
against the soot,--the blacks, as the English call them. It's a more
expressive term. They are like an army, you know, overwhelming in their
relentless invasion. Well, do sit down