circumstances.

As he lighted his pipe there came a hesitating knock at the door; he
jerked his head sharply; the knock was repeated.

Something--a faintest premonition--the vaguest stirring of foreboding
committed him to silence--and left him there motionless. The match
burned close to his fingers; he dropped it and set his heel upon the
sparks.

Then he walked swiftly to the door, flung it open full width--and stood
stock still.

And Mrs. Ruthven entered the room, partly closing the door behind, her
gloved hand still resting on the knob.

For a moment they confronted one another, he tall, rigid, astounded; she
pale, supple, relaxing a trifle against the half-closed door behind her,
which yielded and closed with a low click.

At the sound of the closing door he found his voice; it did not resemble
his own voice either to himself or to her; but she answered his
bewildered question:

"I don't know why I came. Is it so very dreadful? Have I offended
you? . . . I did not suppose that men cared about conventions."

"But--why on earth--did you come?" he repeated. "Are you in trouble?"

"I seem to be now," she said with a tremulous laugh; "you are
frightening me to death, Captain Selwyn."

Still dazed, he found the first chair at hand and dragged it toward her.

She hesitated at the offer; then: "Thank you," she said, passing before
him. She laid her hand on the chair, looked a moment at him, and sank
into it.

Resting there, her pale cheek against her muff, she smiled at him, and
every nerve in him quivered with pity.

"World without end; amen," she said. "Let the judgment of man pass."

"The judgment of this man passes very gently," he said, looking down at
her. "What brings you here, Mrs. Ruthven?"

"Will you believe me?"

"Yes."

"Then--it is simply the desire of the friendless for a friend. Nothing
else--nothing more subtle, nothing of effrontery; n-nothing worse. Do
you believe me?"

"I don't understand--"

"Try to."

"Do you mean that you have differed with--"

"Him?" She laughed. "Oh, no; I was talking of real people, not of myths.
And real people are not very friendly to me, always--not that they are
disagreeable, you understand, only a trifle overcordial; and my most
intimate friend kisses me a little too frequently. By the way, she has
quite succumbed to you, I hear."

"Who do you mean?"

"Why, Rosamund."

He said something under his breath and looked at her impatiently.

"Didn't