He was thinking of this possible aspect of the matter as he mounted the staircase of the house in Mortimer Street the next day.  The stairway was of the ordinary lodging-house type, its dinginess somewhat alleviated by the fact that the Cupps had covered the worn carpet with clean warm-coloured felting.  The yellowish marbled paper on the walls depressed the mind as one passed it; the indeterminate dun paint had defied fog for years.  The whole house presented only such features as would encourage its proprietors to trust to the sufficing of infrequent re-decoration.

Jane had, however, made efforts in behalf of the drawing-room, in which her mistress spent her days.  She had introduced palliations by degrees and with an unobtrusiveness which was not likely to attract the attention of neighbours unaccustomed to lavish delivery by means of furniture vans.  She had brought in a rug or so, and had gradually replaced objects with such as were more pleasant to live with and more comfortable to use.  Dr. Warren had seen the change wrought, and had noted evidences that money was not unobtainable.  The maid also was a young woman whose manner towards her mistress was not merely respectful and well-bred, but suggestive of watchful affection bordering on reverence.  Jane Cupp herself was a certificate of decorum and good standing.  It was not such young women who secluded themselves with questionable situations.  As she laid her hand on the drawing-room door to open it and announce him, it occurred to Dr. Warren that he would tell Mary that evening that if Mrs. Jameson had been the heroine of any unconventional domestic drama it was an unmistakable fact that Jane Cupp would have “felt it her duty as a young woman to leave this day month, if you please, ma’am,” quite six months ago.  And there she was, in a neat gown and apron,—­evidently a fixture because she liked her place,—­her decent young face full of sympathetic interest.

The day was dull and cold, but the front room was warm and made cheerful by fire.  Mrs. Jameson was sitting at a writing-table.  There were letters before her, and she seemed to have been re-reading them.  She did not any longer bloom with normal health.  Her face was a little dragged, and the first thing he noted in the eyes she lifted to him was that they were bewildered.

“She has had a shock,” he thought.  “Poor woman!”

He began to talk to her about herself with the kindly perception which was inseparable from him.  He wondered if the time had not come when she would confide in him.  Her shock, whatsoever it had been, had left her in the position of a woman wholly at a loss to comprehend what had occurred.  He saw this in her ingenuous troubled face.  He felt as if she was asking herself what she should do.  It was not unlikely that presently she would ask him what she should do.  He had been asked such things before by women, but they usually added trying detail accompanied by sobs, and appealed to his chivalry for impossible aid.  Sometimes they implored him to go to people and use his influence.