In the dimness of a hall or large vestibule the figure of a man loomed black against dark gray.  Win could see of him only that he was tall and straight and prim, like a well-trained servant, and his voice was a servant’s voice as he said:  “Please be a little careful, miss, not to trip.  We have to keep it rather dark here, but there’s plenty of light inside Let me show you through the hall.”

Win thanked him, but turned inside the door to ask:  “Aren’t you coming, Miss Leavitt?” (They had never been upon Christian name terms.)

“Yes, I’m just turning the key,” replied Lily.  “Go along.  I’ll follow.”

Win went on through the dusk, dimly seeing panelled walls.  She heard the door shut sharply behind her and supposed that Lily had come in, but at the same instant another door opened ahead and a soft wave of rosy light flowed out.

“Walk in, if you please, miss,” requested the tall servant standing attentive, and mechanically Win obeyed.

Lily Leavitt had not exaggerated—­this was a “swell house,” and “cool as snow.”  The room into which she had been ushered was a dining-room, and at first glance was all one rosy glow—­walls, drawn curtains, thick, mossy carpet, brocade-upholstered furniture, lamps and candle shades.  The table was a shining bunch of lilies in a garden of deep-red roses seen at sunset, and the glitter of silver and gleam of glass was a bright sprinkle of dewdrops catching the red western light.

It was so long since Win had been in a pretty room or had seen a charmingly decorated table that for a few seconds she lost herself in the sheer joy of beauty.  The sunset-garden simile flashed into her mind and pleased her.  She was glad that she had come.  The guests might be uninteresting, of the Lily Leavitt sort, and the artists might be so called only by themselves.  The room might be over-gorgeous by daylight, but it was beautiful thus lighted, with a rosy radiance from above, bringing out the whiteness of damask, the snow purity of camellias crowding a crystal bowl, and the ruby splendour of strawberries piled on their own leaves.

What a wonderful sight after months of the Hands restaurant and free lunches with five-cent chocolate in busy drug stores!  Oh, yes, she was glad she had come, and she must look, look, look at this beautiful picture, so that she might remember its details and hold it before her eyes, like a delicately painted transparency, in front of future realities.

But it was in carrying out this intention, in taking in the details, that Win’s heart suddenly bounded and then missed a beat.  The table had two chairs drawn up to it.  It was small and round, and on it only two places were laid.

Win turned her head and looked for Lily Leavitt.  Lily was not there, neither was the tall, respectable servant.  But a smiling man in evening dress was just coming into the room with the ingratiating air of one who is a little late for an appointment.