I rose, bowed slightly, and then dropped into my chair again, still
keeping the book in my hand. "Miss Grief?" I said interrogatively as I
indicated a seat with my eyebrows.

"Not Grief," she answered--"Crief: my name is Crief."

She sat down, and I saw that she held a small flat box.

"Not carving, then," I thought--"probably old lace, something that
belonged to Tullia or Lucrezia Borgia." But as she did not speak I
found myself obliged to begin: "You have been here, I think, once or
twice before?"

"Seven times; this is the eighth."

A silence.

"I am often out; indeed, I may say that I am never in," I remarked
carelessly.

"Yes; you have many friends."

"--Who will perhaps buy old lace," I mentally added. But this time I
too remained silent; why should I trouble myself to draw her out? She
had sought me; let her advance her idea, whatever it was, now that
entrance was gained.

But Miss Grief (I preferred to call her so) did not look as though she
could advance anything; her black gown, damp with rain, seemed to
retreat fearfully to her thin self, while her thin self retreated as
far as possible from me, from the chair, from everything. Her eyes were
cast down; an old-fashioned lace veil with a heavy border shaded her
face. She looked at the floor, and I looked at her.

I grew a little impatient, but I made up my mind that I would continue
silent and see how long a time she would consider necessary to give due
effect to her little pantomime. Comedy? Or was it tragedy? I suppose
full five minutes passed thus in our double silence; and that is a long
time when two persons are sitting opposite each other alone in a small
still room.

At last my visitor, without raising her eyes, said slowly, "You are
very happy, are you not, with youth, health, friends, riches, fame?"

It was a singular beginning. Her voice was clear, low, and very sweet
as she thus enumerated my advantages one by one in a list. I was
attracted by it, but repelled by her words, which seemed to me flattery
both dull and bold.

"Thanks," I said, "for your kindness, but I fear it is undeserved. I
seldom discuss myself even when with my friends."

"I am your friend," replied Miss Grief. Then, after a moment, she added
slowly, "I have read every word you have written."

I curled the edges of my book indifferently; I am not a fop, I hope,
but--others have said the same.

"What is more, I know much of it by heart," continued my visitor.