That sublimated form of guesswork which is called “woman’s intuition” told her that Ste. Marie would come to her on this afternoon, and that something in the nature of a crisis would have to be faced.  It can be proved even by poor masculine mathematics that guesswork, like other gambling ventures, is bound to succeed about half the time, and it succeeded on this occasion.  Even as Miss Benham stood at the window looking out through the curtains, M. Ste. Marie was announced from the doorway.

She turned to meet him with a little frown of determination, for in his absence she was often very strong, indeed, and sometimes she made up and rehearsed little speeches of great dignity and decision in which she told him that he was attempting a quite hopeless thing, and, as a well-wishing friend, advised him to go away and attempt it no longer.  But as Ste. Marie came quickly across the room toward her, the little frown wavered and at last fled from her face and another look came there.  It was always so.  The man’s bodily presence exerted an absolute spell over her.

“I have been sitting with your grandfather for half an hour,” Ste. Marie said.  And she said: 

“Oh, I’m glad!  I’m very glad!  You always cheer him up.  He hasn’t been too cheerful or too well of late.”  She unnecessarily twisted a chair about, and after a moment sat down in it.  And she gave a little laugh.  “This friendship which has grown up between my grandfather and you,” said she—­“I don’t understand it at all.  Of course, he knew your father and all that; but you two seem such very different types, I shouldn’t think you would amuse each other at all.  There’s Mr. Hartley, for example.  I should expect my grandfather to like him very much better than you, but he doesn’t—­though I fancy he approves of him much more.”

She laughed again, but a different laugh; and when he heard it Ste. Marie’s eyes gleamed a little and his hands moved beside him.

“I expect,” said she—­“I expect, you know, that he just likes you without stopping to think why—­as everybody else does.  I fancy it’s just that.  What do you think?”

“Oh, I?” said the man.  “I—­how should I know?  I know it’s a great privilege to be allowed to see him—­such a man as that.  And I know we get on wonderfully well.  He doesn’t condescend, as most old men do who have led important lives.  We just talk as two men in a club might talk, and I tell him stories and make him laugh.  Oh yes, we get on wonderfully well.”

“Oh,” said she, “I’ve often wondered what you talk about.  What did you talk about to-day?”