The footsteps stopped.

Devenish, within the room, half-closed his eyes, bent his head in an attitude of amused attention.  He heard many things in the silence that followed.

“Had I better go and dress?” she asked, after the moment’s pause.

“Oh no, he’s not changed.  He’s in here; come along.”

Sally entered and Devenish moved forward to shake hands.

“Good evening, Miss Bishop; don’t you hesitate to say if you’d thought of doing anything else.  I just had a loose end, nothing to do—­so I looked in here, hoping he might come out to dinner.”

“It’s very kind of you to think of it.”

“Oh, not a bit.  I shall be delighted.  You say where you’d like to dine; it doesn’t make the slightest difference to me.  I’ll go back and change if you prefer to dress.”

“Oh no, thanks.  Really, I think I’d rather not.  If you don’t mind my coming as I am.”

“Not a bit.”

She turned to Traill.

“Shall I go up and put on my hat, Jack?” There was no interest in her voice, no enthusiasm.  This was a child doing the bidding of his master.  Devenish saw through every note of it.  He gathered—­erroneously—­that Traill had told her he was taking Miss Standish-Roe to the theatre; fancied that perhaps she may have seen or heard of the girl’s undeniable prettiness, and was piqued with jealousy.  Certainly it was not for love that she was coming out to dine with him.  But that was no deterrent.  He looked forward to it all the more.

“Yes, run up and put on your hat; we can all go out together if you’re quick.”

She went away quietly.  They heard her mounting the stairs, but only Devenish noticed the difference in the way she had come down and the manner in which she returned.  He also read its meaning.

“How long has she been living with you here?” he asked, when Traill had closed the door and returned to the continuance of his dressing.

“A few months over three years.”

“Of course—­I remember your telling me.”

They fell into silence, Devenish watching his friend with half-conscious amusement as he clumsily tied a white tie, then shot his arms into waistcoat and coat, one after the other, with no study of the effect and apparently but little interest.

Lest it should seem unaccountable that this man, seemingly a stranger, walking casually one evening into his rooms, should be apparently so intimately possessed of the circumstances of Traill’s relationship with Sally, it were as well to point out that men in their friendship are bound by no necessity of constant meeting.  In a while they meet and for a while see nothing of each other; but when they meet—­no matter what time may have elapsed since their last coming together—­they are the same friends whose conversation might just have been broken, needing only the formalities of welcome to set it going on again, as you wind a clock that has run out the tether