floor. The proof sketch of a wonderful
poster took up one side of the wall, leaning against the others were
sketches, pictures, golf clubs, and huge piles of books of reference.
His table was a bewilderment, his mantelpiece a nightmare. Only before
him, in a handsome frame of dark wood, was the photograph of a woman
round which a little space had been cleared. There was never so much
chaos but that the picture was turned where the light fell best upon it;
the dirt might lie thick upon every inch in the room, but every morning
a silk handkerchief carefully removed from the glass-mounting every
disfiguring speck. Yet the man himself seemed to have little enough
sentiment about him. His shoulders were broad and his head massive. A
short-cut beard concealed his chin, but his mouth was of iron and his
eyes were hard and keen. He was of no more than the average stature by
reason of his breadth and girth; he seemed even to fall short of it,
which was not however the case. A man not easily led or controlled, a
man of passions and prejudices, emphatically not a man to be trifled
with or ignored.

In the midst of the pile of letters he came upon one at the sight of
which his indifference vanished as though by magic. It was a heavy,
square envelope, a coronet upon the flap, addressed to David Drexley,
Esq., in a handwriting distinctly feminine. He singled it out from the
rest, held it for a moment between his thumb and broad forefinger, and
then turned his chair round, abandoning the rest of his correspondence
as a matter of infinitesimal consequence. A letter from her was by no
means an everyday affair, for she was a woman of caprices, as who should
know better than he? There were weeks during which it was her pleasure
to hold herself aloof from him--and others--when the servants who denied
her shook their heads to all questions, and letters met with no
response. What should he find inside, he wondered? An invitation, or a
reproof. He had tried so hard to see her lately. He was in no hurry
to open it. He had grown to expect very little from her. While it was
unopened there was at least the pleasure of expectancy. He traced the
letters over. There was the same curl of the S, the same finely formed
capitals, the same deliberate and firm dash after the address. Then a
thought came to him. It was Wednesday, the night on which she often saw
her friends. Surely this was a summons. He might see her within a few
hours. He tore open the e