sooner hear him grumblin' about her Ladyship as he used
to do. It 'ud be more natural-like, so it would. Why would we be callin'
him 'Old Blood and Thunder' if 'twas to be like an image he was? Och,
the ould times were ever the best!"

"He'll come to himself yet," said Bridget more hopefully.

CHAPTER XVII

A NIGHT OF SPRING

The room was a long bare one, with three deep windows. They were all
open so that the fog and the noises of the street came in freely. It had
for furniture a long office table, an American desk, several
cupboards--the door of one of these last stood open, revealing lettered
pigeon-holes inside. Everywhere there were files, letter-baskets, all
manner of receptacles for papers. There were a number of hard, painted
chairs. An American clock ticked on the mantel-shelf, a fire burned in
the grate behind a high wire screen. The unshaded gas-lights gave the
room a dreary aspect it need not have had otherwise.

The only occupant of the room was Mary Gray, who sat at a small table
working a typewriter. She had pulled a gas-jet down low over her head,
and the light of it was on her hair, bringing out bronze lights in it,
on her neck, showing its whiteness and roundness. The machine clicked
away busily. Sheet after sheet was pulled from it and dropped into a
basket. The basket was half-filled with the pile of papers that had
fallen into it.

Suddenly there came a little tap at the door. Mary raised her head and
looked towards it expectantly as she said, "Come in."

Someone came in, someone whom she had expected to see, although she had
said to herself that she supposed the caretaker of the building had
grown tired of waiting, and was coming to remind her that the church
clock had just struck seven.

"Ah, Sir Robin," she said, turning about to shake hands with him. "Who
would have thought of seeing you? I am just going home."

"As I came past this way I looked up and saw your light through the fog.
I thought you would be going home, and that you would let me escort you
to your own door. There is a bit of a fog really."

"I am glad you did not come out of your way. Thank you. I shall be ready
in a few minutes. You don't mind waiting?"

"Not at all. May I smoke?"

"Do. It will be pleasanter than the smell of the fog."

"Ah! I hadn't noticed the smell. I have a delusion, or do I really
smell--violets?"

"There are some violets by your elbow. I was wearing them, but they
drooped, so I put