Hartley pressed the “McComus” button.  The door latch clicked spasmodically—­now hospitably, now doubtfully, as though in anxiety whether it might be admitting friends or duns.  Hartley entered and began to climb the stairs after the manner of those who seek their friends in city flat-houses—­which is the manner of a boy who climbs an apple-tree, stopping when he comes upon what he wants.

On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an open door.  She invited him inside, with a nod and a bright, genuine smile.  She placed a chair for him near a window, and poised herself gracefully upon the edge of one of those Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture that are masked and mysteriously hooded, unguessable bulks by day and inquisitorial racks of torture by night.

Hartley cast a quick, critical, appreciative glance at her before speaking, and told himself that his taste in choosing had been flawless.

Vivienne was about twenty-one.  She was of the purest Saxon type.  Her hair was a ruddy golden, each filament of the neatly gathered mass shining with its own lustre and delicate graduation of colour.  In perfect harmony were her ivory-clear complexion and deep sea-blue eyes that looked upon the world with the ingenuous calmness of a mermaid or the pixie of an undiscovered mountain stream.  Her frame was strong and yet possessed the grace of absolute naturalness.  And yet with all her Northern clearness and frankness of line and colouring, there seemed to be something of the tropics in her—­something of languor in the droop of her pose, of love of ease in her ingenious complacency of satisfaction and comfort in the mere act of breathing—­something that seemed to claim for her a right as a perfect work of nature to exist and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beautiful, milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions.

She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt—­that discreet masquerade of goose-girl and duchess.

“Vivienne,” said Hartley, looking at her pleadingly, “you did not answer my last letter.  It was only by nearly a week’s search that I found where you had moved to.  Why have you kept me in suspense when you knew how anxiously I was waiting to see you and hear from you?”

The girl looked out the window dreamily.

“Mr. Hartley,” she said hesitatingly, “I hardly know what to say to you.  I realize all the advantages of your offer, and sometimes I feel sure that I could be contented with you.  But, again, I am doubtful.  I was born a city girl, and I am afraid to bind myself to a quiet suburban life.”

“My dear girl,” said Hartley, ardently, “have I not told you that you shall have everything that your heart can desire that is in my power to give you?  You shall come to the city for the theatres, for shopping and to visit your friends as often as you care to.  You can trust me, can you not?”

“To the fullest,” she said, turning her frank eyes upon him with a smile.  “I know you are the kindest of men, and that the girl you get will be a lucky one.  I learned all about you when I was at the Montgomerys’.”