ested on the garden,
on the empty house, and on the empty room that she had peopled already
with her innocent dream. It seemed to him that in that remote gaze of
her woman's eyes, abstracted from her lover, unconsciously desirous of
the end beyond desire, he saw revealed the mystery, the sanctity, the
purity of wedded love. And seeing it he forgave her that momentary
abstraction.

But the Beaver never dreamed; she was far too practical. She was
building, that was all.

CHAPTER LIV

That evening as they sat down to dinner, it might have been noticed
that Mrs Downey's face was more flushed and festal than it had been
since the day was fixed for Mr. Rickman's wedding and departure. She
seated herself expansively, with a gay rustling of many frills, and
smiled well pleased upon the arrangements of her table. From these
signs it was evident that Mrs. Downey was expecting another boarder, a
boarder of whom she had reason to be proud. Rickman noticed with
dismay that the stranger's place was laid beside his own. He knew them
so well, these eternal, restless birds of passage, draggled with their
flight from one boarding-house to another. The only tolerable thing
about them was that, being here to-day, they were gone to-morrow.

The new boarder was late, culpably late. But Mrs. Downey was proud of
that too, as arguing that the poor bird of passage had stayed to
smooth her ruffled plumage. Mrs. Downey approved of all persons who
thus voluntarily acknowledged the high ceremonial character of the
Dinner. She was glad that Mr. Rickman would appear to-night in full
evening dress, to rush away in the middle of the meal, a splendour the
more glorious, being brief. She was waiting for the delightful moment
when she would explain to the visitor that the gentleman who had just
left the room was Mr. Rickman, "the reviewer and dramatic critic." She
would say it, as she had said it many times before, with the easy
accomplished smile of the hostess familiar with celebrity.

But that moment never came. The very anticipation of it was lost in
the thrill of the visitor's belated entrance. Yet nothing could have
been quieter than the manner of it. She (for it _was_ a lady) came
into the room as if she had lived at Mrs. Downey's all her life, and
knew her way already from the doorway to her chair. When she said,
"I'm so sorry, I'm afraid I'm rather late," she seemed to be taking
for granted their recognition of a familiar personal ch