As this happened to be the night for his laundry, he merely called out, “All right!” and remained incurious, seated in the new chair and striving to adjust its stiff and narrow architecture to his own broad shoulders.  Finally he got up and filled his pipe, intending to try the chair once more under the most favourable circumstances.

As he lighted his pipe there came a hesitating knock at the door; he jerked his head sharply; the knock was repeated.

Something—­a faintest premonition—­the vaguest stirring of foreboding committed him to silence—­and left him there motionless.  The match burned close to his fingers; he dropped it and set his heel upon the sparks.

Then he walked swiftly to the door, flung it open full width—­and stood stock still.

And Mrs. Ruthven entered the room, partly closing the door behind, her gloved hand still resting on the knob.

For a moment they confronted one another, he tall, rigid, astounded; she pale, supple, relaxing a trifle against the half-closed door behind her, which yielded and closed with a low click.

At the sound of the closing door he found his voice; it did not resemble his own voice either to himself or to her; but she answered his bewildered question: 

“I don’t know why I came.  Is it so very dreadful?  Have I offended you? . . .  I did not suppose that men cared about conventions.”

“But—­why on earth—­did you come?” he repeated.  “Are you in trouble?”

“I seem to be now,” she said with a tremulous laugh; “you are frightening me to death, Captain Selwyn.”

Still dazed, he found the first chair at hand and dragged it toward her.

She hesitated at the offer; then:  “Thank you,” she said, passing before him.  She laid her hand on the chair, looked a moment at him, and sank into it.

Resting there, her pale cheek against her muff, she smiled at him, and every nerve in him quivered with pity.

“World without end; amen,” she said.  “Let the judgment of man pass.”

“The judgment of this man passes very gently,” he said, looking down at her.  “What brings you here, Mrs. Ruthven?”

“Will you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Then—­it is simply the desire of the friendless for a friend.  Nothing else—­nothing more subtle, nothing of effrontery; n-nothing worse.  Do you believe me?”

“I don’t understand—­”

“Try to.”

“Do you mean that you have differed with—­”

“Him?” She laughed.  “Oh, no; I was talking of real people, not of myths.  And real people are not very friendly to me, always—­not that they are disagreeable, you understand, only a trifle overcordial; and my most intimate friend kisses me a little too frequently.  By the way, she has quite succumbed to you, I hear.”

“Who do you mean?”

“Why, Rosamund.”

He said something under his breath and looked at her impatiently.