ooking over her mother's shoulder, laughed. "You couldn't
splash about much.... You shave at that, I suppose."

"I don't. One shaves. There's a better apartment he could have got for
the same price, but manlike he didn't find it out till too late. What's
this--bedroom?... Yes, there's the bed."

They stepped back into the sitting-room, and Carlisle, strolling
aimlessly about, became a little silent and distrait.

It is possibly true, as crusty single-men affirm, that a certain
solacing faculty inheres in beautiful ladies: the faculty, namely, of
explaining all apparently unwelcome situations upon theories quite
flattering to themselves. But Carlisle surely needed no such
make-believe in this moment of rather excited expectancy.

Of course she knew well enough what inferences Evey and Mattie, for
instance (in both of whom there was a certain amount of the cat), would
have drawn from the fact that Mr. Canning, last month, had not seemed to
follow up in anyway their very interesting meeting at the Beach. She
alone knew the real circumstances, however, and it had become quite
clear to her that Mr. Canning's demeanor was only what was to be
expected. He was the proudest of men, and (that awful night at the
Beach) she had expelled him from her presence like a schoolboy.
Naturally he had been annoyed and offended--stung even into the rudeness
of abandoning her in a summer-house to an entire stranger. How could you
possibly wonder (unless feline) that he, great unsocial at best, had
thereafter remained silent inside his fort?...

"How like a man," breathed Mrs. Heth, glancing at her watch, "to pick
out this day of all others to be detained at a bank."

She had sat down in one of the bachelor chairs, to take her weight from
her feet, which hurt her by reason of new shoes half a size too small.
The sitting-room was pleasant enough in a strictly orthodox fashion, and
was illuminated by an electric-lamp on the black centre-table. Mrs.
Heth, who had helped Willie with his furnishings, had considered it the
prettiest electrolier that fourteen dollars would buy in the town during
the week before last. Carlisle had come to a halt before the bookcase.
It was a mission-oak case, with leaded glass doors. For the moment it
might be said to represent rather the aspirations of a bibliophile than
their fulfilment, since it contained but seven books, huddled together
on the next-to-the-top shelf. Carlisle swung open the door, and examined