Somewhere about the house a canary twittered softly.  Evelyn Walton, arrested on the sitting room threshold, a fold of the light portiere clasped in one hand, gazed at the intruder.  Wade, frozen to immobility just inside the door, one hand still grasping the knob, gazed at the girl.  His mind was a blank.  His lips moved mechanically, but no words issued from them.  It seemed to him that whole minutes had passed, although in reality the old-fashioned clock at the end of the hall had ticked not more than thrice.  He felt the color surging into his face, and at last sheer desperation loosened his tongue.

“Is there anything I can do—­” he began.

But at the very same moment Evelyn Walton’s power of speech returned likewise, and—­

“You wished to see—­some one?” she inquired.

As they spoke absolutely together neither heard the other’s question and each silently awaited an answer.

“Tick ... tock” said the old clock, sleepily.

Wade’s gaze wandered.  He wondered whether it would be unforgivable to dash quickly out and slam the door behind him.  But in the next breath escape was forgotten and he was looking about him in sheer amazement.  Here was his hallway, but no longer empty.  A shield-backed chair stood beside the parlor door.  A settle ran along the wall beyond.  A pink-cheeked moon leered at him from the top of a tall clock.  Bewilderedly he looked toward the sitting-room.  There, too, everything was changed.  The floor was painted gray.  Rugs took the place of carpet.  Gauzy lace curtains hung at the windows.  A canary in a gilt cage sung above an open window.  Oh, plainly he was bewitched or the world was topsy-turvy!  The look he turned on the girl was so helpless, so entreating that her face, which had begun to set coldly, softened instantly.  The hand clasping the curtain fold fell to her side and she took a step toward him.

“Can I help you?” she asked, kindly.

Wade passed a hand over his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he murmured.  “Will you please tell me where I am?”

“You’re in my house.  I am Miss Walton.”

“Your house?  Then—­then where is mine, please?” he asked, helplessly.

“Just beyond here; the next one.”

“Oh!” he said.  He sought for words with which to explain the situation, but found none.  He backed out, tripped slightly over the sill and found himself on the top step.  He dared one more look into the girl’s amused and sympathetic face and then turned and fled precipitately.  At the gate he brushed against some one, muttered an apology, and plunged through.  Evelyn Walton, following his course of flight from the doorway, laughed softly.  Miss Caroline Mullett, standing on tiptoe in the middle of the path, strove to see over the hedge, and, failing, turned to the girl with breathless curiosity.

[Illustration:  “Your house?  Then—­then where is mine, please?”]