yes from
mine after a moment, and I saw that they had strayed back to her. "You
find her so changed?" he asked.

Something in his voice acted as a warning signal, and I tried to reduce
my astonishment to less unbecoming proportions. "I don't find that she
looks much older."

"No. Only different?" he suggested, as if there were nothing new to him
in my perplexity.

"Yes--awfully different."

"I suppose we're all awfully different. To you, I mean--coming from so
far?"

"I recognized all the rest of you," I said, hesitating. "And she used to
be the one who stood out most."

There was a flash, a wave, a stir of something deep down in his eyes.
"Yes," he said. "_That's_ the difference."

"I see it is. She--she looks worn down. Soft but blurred, like the
figures in that tapestry behind her."

He glanced at her again, as if to test the exactness of my analogy.

"Life wears everybody down," he said.

"Yes--except those it makes more distinct. They're the rare ones, of
course; but she _was_ rare."

He stood up suddenly, looking old and tired. "I believe I'll be off. I
wish you'd come down to my place for Sunday.... No, don't shake hands--I
want to slide away unawares."

He had backed away to the threshold and was turning the noiseless
door-knob. Even Mrs. Cumnor's doorknobs had tact and didn't tell.

"Of course I'll come," I promised warmly. In the last ten minutes he had
begun to interest me again.

"All right Good-bye." Half through the door he paused to add:--"_She_
remembers you. You ought to speak to her."

"I'm going to. But tell me a little more." I thought I saw a shade
of constraint on his face, and did not add, as I had meant to: "Tell
me--because she interests me--what wore her down?" Instead, I asked:
"How soon after Trant's death did she remarry?"

He seemed to make an effort of memory. "It was seven years ago, I
think."

"And is Reardon here to-night?"

"Yes; over there, talking to Mrs. Cumnor."

I looked across the broken groupings and saw a large glossy man with
straw-coloured hair and a red face, whose shirt and shoes and complexion
seemed all to have received a coat of the same expensive varnish.

As I looked there was a drop in the talk about us, and I heard Mr.
Reardon pronounce in a big booming voice: "What I say is: what's the
good of disturbing things? Thank the Lord, I'm content with what I've
got!"

"Is _that_ her husband? What's he like?"

"Oh, the best fellow in the world