“Mrs. Maldon,” said Rachel, “had an idea that it was me who suggested your staying all night instead of your cousin.”  She raised her chin, and peered at nothing through the window as she rubbed away at a spoon.

“But when?” Louis demanded, moving towards the fire.  It appeared to him that the conversation had taken a most interesting turn.

“When?...  When you brought the tray in here for me, I suppose.”

“And I suppose you explained to her that I had the idea all out of my own little head?”

“I told her that I should never have dreamed of asking such a thing!” The susceptible and proud young creature indicated that the suggestion was one of Mrs. Maldon’s rare social errors, and that Mrs. Maldon had had a narrow escape of being snubbed for it by the woman of the world now washing silver.  “I’m no more afraid of burglars than you are,” Rachel added.  “I should just like to catch a burglar here—­that I should!”

Louis indulgently doubted the reality of this courage.  He had been too hastily concluding that what Rachel resented was an insinuation of undue interest in himself, whereas she now made it seem that she was objecting merely to any reflection upon her valour:  which was much less exciting to him.  Still, he thought that both causes might have contributed to her delightful indignation.

“Why was she so keen about having one of us to sleep here to-night?” Louis inquired.

“Well, I don’t know that she was,” answered Rachel.  “If you hadn’t said anything—­”

“Oh, but do you know what she said to me upstairs?”

“No.”

“She didn’t want me even to go back to my digs for my things.  Evidently she doesn’t care for the house to be left even for half an hour.”

“Well, of course old people are apt to get nervous, you know—­especially when they’re not well.”

“Funny, isn’t it?”

There was perfect unanimity between them as to the irrational singularity and sad weakness of aged persons.

Louis remarked—­

“She said you would make everything right for me upstairs.”

“I have done—­I hope,” said Rachel.

“Thanks awfully!”

One part of the table was covered with newspaper.  Suddenly Rachel tore a strip off the newspaper, folded the strip into a spill, and, lighting it at the gas, tendered it to Louis’ unlit cigarette.

The climax of the movement was so quick and unexpected as almost to astound Louis.  For he had been standing behind her, and she had not turned her head before making the spill.  Perhaps there was a faint reflection of himself in the window.  Or perhaps she had eyes in her hair.  Beyond doubt she was a strange, rare, angelic girl.  The gesture with which she modestly offered the spill was angelic; it was divine; it was one of those phenomena which persist in a man’s memory for decades.  At the very instant of its happening he knew that he should never forget it.