“I knew that you were there even before I looked out of the window,” she exclaimed to Gerty, in what Adams had once called her “Creole voice.”  Then she paused, laughing happily, as she looked, with her animated glance, from Gerty to Trent and from Trent to Adams.  To the younger man, full of his enthusiasm and his ignorance, the physical details of her appearance seemed suddenly of no larger significance than the pale bronze gown she wore or the old coffee-coloured lace knotted upon her bosom in some personal caprice of dress.  What she gave to him as she stood there, looking from Adams to himself with her ardent friendly glance, was an impression of radiant energy, of abundant life.

She turned back after the first greeting, leading the way into the pleasant firelit room, where a white haired old gentleman with an interesting blanched face rose to receive them.

“I have just proved to Mr. Wilberforce that I could ‘feel’ you coming,” said Laura with a smile as she unfastened Gerty’s furs.

“And I have argued that she could quite as well surmise it,” returned Mr. Wilberforce, as he fell back into his chair before the wood fire.

“Well, you may know in either way that my coming may be counted on,” said Gerty, “for I have sacrificed for you the society of the most interesting man I know.”

“What!  Is it possible that Perry has been forsaken?” enquired Adams in his voice of quiet humor.  In the midst of her flippant laughter, Gerty turned on him the open cynicism of her smile.

“Now is it possible that Perry has that effect on you?” she asked with curiosity.  “For I find him decidedly depressing.”

“Then if it isn’t Perry I demand the name,” persisted Adams gayly, “though I’m perfectly ready to wager that it’s Arnold Kemper.”

“Kemper,” repeated Laura curiously, as if the name arrested her almost against her will.  “Wasn’t there a little novel once by an Arnold Kemper—­a slight but striking thing with very little grammar and a great deal of audacity?”

“Oh, that was done in his early days,” replied Adams, “as a kind of outlet to the energy he now expends in racing motors.  I asked Funsten, who does our literary notices, if there was any chance for him again in fiction, and he answered that the only favourable thing he could say of him was to say nothing.”

“But he’s gone in for automobiles now,” said Gerty, “they’re so much bigger, after all, he thinks, than books.”

“I haven’t seen him for fifteen years,” remarked Adams, “but I recognise his speech.”

“One always recognises his speeches,” admitted Gerty, “there’s a stamp on them, I suppose, for somehow he himself is great even if his career isn’t—­and, after all,” she concluded seriously, “it is—­what shall I call it—­the personal quantity that he insists on.”

“The personal quantity,” repeated Laura laughing, and, as if the description of Kemper had failed to interest her, she turned the conversation upon the subject of Trent’s play.