He said that he couldn’t stay that day; and when she had gone away to the schoolroom he walked slowly to the window and looked out across the snowy Park, where hundreds of children were floundering about with gaily painted sleds.  It was a pretty scene in the sunshine; crimson sweaters and toboggan caps made vivid spots of colour on the white expanse.  Beyond, through the naked trees, he could see the drive, and the sleighs with their brilliant scarlet plumes and running-gear flashing in the sun.  Overhead was the splendid winter blue of the New York sky, in which, at a vast height, sea-birds circled.

Meaning to go—­for the house and its associations made him restless—­he picked up the box of violets and turned to ring for a maid to take charge of them—­and found himself confronting Eileen, who, in her furs and gloves, was just entering the room.

“I came up,” she said; “they told me you were here, calling very formally upon Drina, if you please.  What with her monopoly of you and Boots, there seems to be no chance for Nina and me.”

They shook hands pleasantly; he offered her the box of violets, and she thanked him and opened it, and, lifting the heavy, perfumed bunch, bent her fresh young face to it.  For a moment she stood inhaling the scent, then stretched out her arm, offering their fragrance to him.

“The first night I ever knew you, you sent me about a wagon-load of violets,” she said carelessly.

He nodded pleasantly; she tossed her muff on to the library table, stripped off her gloves, and began to unhook her fur coat, declining his aid with a quick shake of her head.

“It is easy—­you see!”—­as the sleeves slid from her arms and the soft mass of fur fell into a chair.  “And, by the way, Drina said that you couldn’t wait to see Nina,” she continued, turning to face a mirror and beginning to withdraw the jewelled pins from her hat, “so you won’t for a moment consider it necessary to remain just because I wandered in—­will you?”

He made no reply; she was still busy with her veil and hat and her bright, glossy hair, the ends of which curled up at the temples—­a burnished frame for her cheeks which the cold had delicately flushed to a wild-rost tint.  Then, brushing back the upcurled tendrils of her hair, she turned to confront him, faintly smiling, brows lifted in silent repetition of her question.

“I will stay until Nina comes, if I may,” he said slowly.

She seated herself.  “You may,” she said mockingly; “we don’t allow you in the house very often, so when you do come you may remain until the entire family can congregate to inspect you.”  She leaned back, looking at him; then look and manner changed, and she bent impulsively forward: 

“You don’t look very well, Captain Selwyn; are you?”

“Perfectly.  I”—­he laughed—­“I am growing old; that is all.”

“Do you say that to annoy me?” she asked, with a disdainful shrug, “or to further impress me?”