no longer young or attractive. If she
were not eccentric she would not have persisted in coming to my door
day after day in this silent way, without stating her errand, leaving a
note, or presenting her credentials in any shape. I made up my mind
that she had something to sell--a bit of carving or some intaglio
supposed to be antique. It was known that I had a fancy for oddities. I
said to myself, "She has read or heard of my 'Old Gold' story, or else
'The Buried God,' and she thinks me an idealizing ignoramus upon whom
she can impose. Her sepulchral name is at least not Italian; probably
she is a sharp countrywoman of mine, turning, by means of the present
aesthetic craze, an honest penny when she can."

She had called seven times during a period of two weeks without seeing
me, when one day I happened to be at home in the afternoon, owing to a
pouring rain and a fit of doubt concerning Miss Abercrombie. For I had
constructed a careful theory of that young lady's characteristics in my
own mind, and she had lived up to it delightfully until the previous
evening, when with one word she had blown it to atoms and taken flight,
leaving me standing, as it were, on a desolate shore, with nothing but
a handful of mistaken inductions wherewith to console myself. I do not
know a more exasperating frame of mind, at least for a constructor of
theories. I could not write, and so I took up a French novel (I model
myself a little on Balzac). I had been turning over its pages but a few
moments when Simpson knocked, and, entering softly, said, with just a
shadow of a smile on his well-trained face, "Miss Grief." I briefly
consigned Miss Grief to all the Furies, and then, as he still
lingered--perhaps not knowing where they resided--I asked where the
visitor was.

"Outside, sir--in the hall. I told her I would see if you were at
home."

"She must be unpleasantly wet if she had no carriage."

"No carriage, sir: they always come on foot. I think she _is_ a little
damp, sir."

"Well, let her in; but I don't want the maid. I may as well see her
now, I suppose, and end the affair."

"Yes, sir."

I did not put down my book. My visitor should have a hearing, but not
much more: she had sacrificed her womanly claims by her persistent
attacks upon my door. Presently Simpson ushered her in. "Miss Grief,"
he said, and then went out, closing the curtain behind him.

A woman--yes, a lady--but shabby, unattractive, and more than
middle-aged.