Nothing of this was visible as he rose on Mariana’s reappearance; there was not a line relaxed; his handsome, dark profile was as pridefully clear as if it had been stamped on a bronze coin.  Mariana wore, simply, blue, with an amber veiling of tulle about her shoulders, and a short skirt that gave her a marked youthful aspect.  She seemed ill at ease; and avoided his gaze, hurrying out to meet the motor as it noisily turned sharply in at the door.  Howat Penny heard Eliza Provost’s short, impatient enunciation, and a rapid, masculine utterance.  Eliza entered, a girl with a decided, evenly pale face and brown eyes, in a severe black linen suit and a small hat, and extended a direct hand, a slightly smiling greeting.  Mariana followed, for a moment filling the doorway.  “We’ll go up, Eliza,” she said, moving with the other to the stair, a few feet distant.  A man followed into the house, and Mariana half turned on the bottom step.  “Howat,” she proceeded hurriedly, “this is James Polder.”  Then she ascended with Eliza Provost.

An expression of amazement, deepening almost to dismay, was momentarily visible on Howat Penny’s countenance.  His face felt hot, and there was an uncomfortable pressure in his throat, such as might come from shock.  Surely Mariana wouldn’t ... without warning him—!  He was conscious of the necessity, facing a tall, spare young man with an intent expression, of a polite phrase; and he articulated an adequate something in a noticeably disturbed tone.  But, of course, he had made a mistake.  James Polder’s intensity increased, concentrated in a gaze at once belligerent and eager.  He said: 

“Then Miss Jannan didn’t tell you.  It was a mistake.  It may be I am not exactly desirable here,” his voice sharpened, and he retreated a step toward the door.

“No,” Howat Penny replied; “she didn’t.”  He found himself studying a face at once youthful and lined, a good jaw contradicted by a mouth already traced with discontent, and yellow-brown eyes kindling with a surprising energy of resentment.  “You are Byron Polder’s son?” he said in a manner that carried its own affirmation.  “Eunice Scofield’s grandson.”

“Eunice Penny’s,” the other interjected.  “Your own grandfather saw to that.”  His hand rested in the doorway, and he stopped Honduras, carrying in the guests’ bags.  Howat Penny’s poise rapidly returned.  “Go right up, Honduras,” he directed; “the Windmill room, I think.  I had never seen you,” he said to James Polder, as if in apology.  “But your father has been pointed out to me.”  He waved the younger man into the room beyond, and moved forward the cigarettes.

James Polder took one with an evident relief in the commonplace act.  He struck a match and lit the cigarette with elaborate care.  “Will you sit for a little?” the elder proceeded.  “Or perhaps you’d rather change at once.  I’ve no doubt it was sticky in the city.”