ng at the photographs--photographs of Pete as a
child, a photograph of an old white house with wisteria-vines on it; a
picture of her looking very much as she did now, with Pete as a little
boy, in a sailor suit, leaning against her; and then a little photograph
of her as a girl not much older than Mathilde, he thought--a girl who
looked a little frightened and awkward, as girls so often looked, and yet
to whom the French photographer--for it was taken in the Place de la
Madeleine--had somehow contrived to give a Parisian air. He had never
thought of her in Paris. He took the picture up; it was dated May, 1884.
He thought back carefully. Yes, he had been in Paris himself that spring,
a man of thirty-three or so, feeling as old almost as he did to-day, a
widower with his little girl. If only they might have met then, he and
that serious, starry-eyed girl in the photograph!

Hearing Pete coming, he set the photograph back in its place, and,
sitting down, picked up the first paper within reach.

"Good night, sir," said Pete from the doorway.

"Good night, my dear boy. Good luck!" They shook hands.

"Funny old duck," Pete thought as he went down-stairs whistling,
"sitting there so contentedly reading 'The Harvard Lampoon.' Wonder what
he thinks of it."

He did not wonder long, though, for more interesting subjects of
consideration were at hand. What reception would he meet at the Farrons?
What arrangements would be made, what assumptions permitted? But even
more immediate than this was the problem how could he contrive to greet
Mrs. Farron? He was shocked to find how little he had been able to
forgive her. There was something devilish, he thought, in the way she had
contrived to shake his self-confidence at the moment of all others when
he had needed it. He could never forget a certain contemptuous curve in
her fine, clear profile or the smooth delight of her tone at some of her
own cruelties. Some day he would have it out with her when the right
moment came. Before he reached the house he had had time to sketch a
number of scenes in which she, caught extraordinarily red-handed, was
forced to listen to his exposition of the evil of such methods as hers.
He would say to her, "I remember that you once said to me, Mrs.
Farron--" Anger cut short his vision as a cloud of her phrases came back
to him, like stinging bees.

He had hoped for a minute alone with Mathilde, but as Pringle opened the
drawing-room door for him he h