If Sylvia wondered, as she dropped down the heights to the valley, what her reception might be at her aunt’s ceremonious household when she entered escorted by a strange hatless man in blue overalls, her fancy fell immeasurably short of the actual ensuing sensation.  Mrs. Marshall-Smith, her stepson, Felix Morrison, and old Mr. Sommerville were all sitting together on the wide north veranda, evidently waiting to be called to luncheon when, at half-past one, the two pedestrians emerged through a side wicket in the thick green hedge of spruce, and advanced up the path, with the free, swinging step of people who have walked far and well.  The effect on the veranda was unimaginable.  Sheer, open-mouthed stupefaction blurred for an instant the composed, carefully arranged masks of those four exponents of decorum.  They gaped and stared, unable to credit their eyes.

And then, according to their natures, they acted.  Mrs. Marshall-Smith rose quickly, smiled brilliantly, and stepped forward with welcoming outstretched hands.  “Why, Sylvia dear, how delightful!  What an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Page!”

Old Mr. Sommerville fairly bounded past Sylvia, caught the man’s arm, and said in an anxious, affectionate, startled voice, “Why, Austin!  Austin!  Austin!”

Morrison rose, but stood quietly by his chair, his face entirely expressionless, palpably and correctly “at attention.”  He had not seen Sylvia since the announcement of his engagement the day before.  He gave her now a graceful, silent, friendly salute from a distance as she stood by her aunt, he called out to her companion a richly cordial greeting of “Well, Page.  This is luck indeed!” but he indicated by his immobility that as a stranger he would not presume to go further until the first interchange between blood-kin was over.

As for Arnold, he neither stirred from his chair, nor opened his mouth to speak.  A slow smile widened on his lips:  it expanded.  He grinned delightedly down at his cigarette, and up at the ceiling, and finally broke into an open laugh of exquisite enjoyment of the scene before him.

Four people were talking at once; Mr. Sommerville, a dismayed old hand still clutching at the new-comer, was protesting with extreme vigor, and being entirely drowned out by the others.  “Of course he can’t stay—­as he is! I’ll go home with him at once!  His room at my house is always ready for him!—­fresh clothes!—­No, no—­impossible to stay!” Mrs. Marshall-Smith was holding firm with her loveliest manner of warm friendliness concentrated on Page.  “Oh, no ceremony, Mr. Page, not between old friends.  Luncheon is just ready—­who cares how you look?” She did not physically dispute with Mr. Sommerville the possession of the new-comer, but she gave entirely that effect.