Henry took another puff at his pipe.  It showed the difference between the masculine and the feminine point of view that Henry did not for one moment attach a sentimental reason to Horace’s going.  He realized Rose’s attractions.  The very probable supposition that she and Horace might fall in love with and marry each other had occurred to him, but this he knew at once had nothing to do with that.  He turned the whole over and over in his mind, with no result.  He lacked enough premises to arrive at conclusions.  He had started for the house and his Sunday paper when he met Sylvia, and had resolved to put it all out of his mind.  But he was not quite able.  There is a masculine curiosity as well as a feminine, and one is about as persistent as the other.

Meantime Horace was walking down the road towards the Ayres house.  It was a pretty, much-ornamented white cottage, with a carefully kept lawn and shade trees.  At one side was an old-fashioned garden with an arbor.  In this arbor, as Horace drew near, he saw the sweep of feminine draperies.  It seemed to him that the arbor was full of women.  In reality there were only three—­Lucy, her mother, and Rose.

When Rose had rung the door-bell she had been surprised by what sounded like a mad rush to answer her ring.  Mrs. Ayres opened the door.  She looked white and perturbed, and behind her showed Lucy’s face, flushed and angry.

“I knew it was Miss Fletcher; I told you so, mother,” said Lucy, and her low, sweet voice rang out like an angry bird’s with a sudden break for the high notes.

Mrs. Ayres kept her self-possession of manner, although her face showed not only nervousness but something like terror.  “Good-afternoon, Miss Fletcher,” she said.  “Please walk in.”

“She said for me to call her Rose,” cried Lucy.  “Please come in, Rose.  I am glad to see you.”

In spite of the cordial words the girl’s voice was strange.  Rose stared from daughter to mother and back again.  “If you were engaged,” she said, rather coldly, “if you would prefer that I come some other time—­”

“No, indeed,” cried Lucy, “no other time.  Yes, every other time.  What am I saying?  But I want you now, too.  Come right up to my room, Rose.  I know you will excuse my wrapper and my bed’s being tumbled.  I have been lying down.  Come right up.”

Rose followed Lucy, and to her astonishment became aware that Lucy’s mother was following her.  Mrs. Ayres entered the room with the two girls.  Lucy looked impatiently at her, and spoke as Rose wondered any daughter could speak.  “Rose and I have some things to talk over, mother,” she said.