He was a gaunt, scholarly looking man of forty years, with broad, singularly bony shoulders, an expression of kindly humour, and a plain, strong face upon which suffering had left its indelible suggestion of defeated physical purpose.  Nothing about him was impressive, nothing even arresting to a casual glance, and not even the shooting light from the keen gray eyes, grown a little wistful from the emotional repression of the man’s life, could account for the cordial appeal that spoke through so unimposing a figure.  As much of his personal history as Gerty knew seemed to her peculiarly devoid of the interest or the excitement of adventure; and the only facts of his life which she would have found deserving the trouble of repeating were that he had married an impossible woman somewhere in Colorado, and that for ten years he had lived in New York where he edited The International Review.

“Perry tells me that Mr. Trent has really read Laura’s poems,” she said now to Adams with an almost unconscious abandonment of her cynical manner.  “Have you examined him and is it really true?”

“I didn’t test him because I hoped the report was false,” was Adams’ answer.  “He’s welcome to the literary hash, but I want to keep the caviar for myself.”

“Read them!” exclaimed Trent eagerly, while his blue eyes ran entirely to sparkles.  “Why, I’ve learned them every one by heart.”

“Then she’ll let you in,” responded Gerty reassuringly, “there’s no doubt whatever of your welcome.”

“But there is of mine,” said Perry gravely, “so I guess I’d better quit.”

He made a movement to turn away, but Gerty placing her gloved hand on his arm, detained him by a reproachful look.

“That reminds me of the mischief you have done to-day,” she said.  “I met Arnold Kemper as I left the house, and when I asked him to come with me what do you suppose was the excuse he gave?”

“The dentist or a twinge of rheumatism?” suggested Adams gravely.

“Neither.”  Her voice rose indignantly, and she enforced her reprimand by a light stroke on Perry’s sleeve.  “He actually said that Perry had told him Laura wasn’t pretty.”

“Well, I take back my words and eat ’em, too,” cried Perry.

He broke away in affected terror before Trent’s angry eyes, while Gerty gave a joyful little exclamation and waved her hand toward one of the lower windows in the house before which they stood.  The head of a woman, framed in brown creepers, appeared there for an instant, and then, almost before Trent had caught a glimpse of the small dark eager figure, melted again into the warm firelight of the interior.  A moment later the outer door opened quickly, and Laura stood there with impulsive outstretched hands and the cordial smile which was her priceless inheritance from a Southern mother.