Arthur repeated his doleful tale, convincingly now, for his hand did feel queer—­as what hand would not, remembering such a touch as Madelene’s, and longing to experience it again?

“Certainly,” said Madelene.  “I’ll do the best I can.  Come in.”

And once more he was in her office, with her bending over him.  And presently her hair came unrolled, came showering down on his arm, on his face; and he shook like a leaf and felt as if he were going to faint, into such an ecstasy did the soft rain of these tresses throw him.  As for Madelene, she was almost hysterical in her confusion.  She darted from the room.

When she returned she seemed calm, but that was because she did not lift those tell-tale gray eyes.  Neither spoke as she finished her work.  If Arthur had opened his lips it would have been to say words which he thought she would resent, and he repent.  Not until his last chance had almost ebbed did he get himself sufficiently in hand to speak.  “It wasn’t true—­what I said,” he began.  “I waited until your father was gone.  Then I came—­to see you.  As you probably know, I’m only a workman, hardly even that, at the cooperage, but—­I want to come to see you.  May I?”

She hesitated.

“I know the people in this town have a very poor opinion of me,” he went on, “and I deserve it, no doubt.  You see, the bottom dropped out of my life not long ago, and I haven’t found myself yet.  But you did more for me in ten minutes the other day than everything and everybody, including myself, have been able to do since my father died.”

“I don’t remember that I said anything,” she murmured.

“I didn’t say that what you said helped me.  I said what you did—­and looked.  And—­I’d like to come.”

“We never have any callers,” she explained.  “You see, father’s—­our—­views—­People don’t understand us.  And, too, we’ve found ourselves very congenial and sufficient unto one another.  So—­I—­I—­don’t know what to say.”

He looked so cast down that she hastened on:  “Yes—­come whenever you like.  We’re always at home.  But we work all day.”

“So do I,” said Arthur.  “Thank you.  I’ll come—­some evening next week.”

Suddenly he felt peculiarly at ease with her, as if he had always known her, as if she and he understood each other perfectly.  “I’m afraid you’ll find me stupid,” he went on.  “I don’t know much about any of the things you’re interested in.”

“Perhaps I’m interested in more things than you imagine,” said she.  “My sister says I’m a fraud—­that I really have a frivolous mind and that my serious look is a hollow pretense.”

And so they talked on, not getting better acquainted but enjoying the realization of how extremely well acquainted they were.  When he was gone, Madelene found that her father had been in for some time.  “Didn’t he ask for me?” she said to Walpurga.

“Yes,” answered Walpurga.  “And I told him you were flirting with Arthur Ranger.”