“He is a very handsome man,” said his mother again, “and he has the air of a gentleman.  He bowed to me like a prince.  He is a very fine-looking man, isn’t he?”

Before Anderson could reply the door-bell rang.

“I wonder who it is,” Mrs. Anderson said, in a hushed voice.

“Somebody on business, probably,” replied Anderson, rising.  The maid had gone out.  As he went into the front hall his mother rustled softly into the dining-room.  She was always averse to being in the room when men came on business.  Sometimes commercial travellers infringed upon Anderson’s home hours, and she was always covertly indignant.  She was constantly in a state of armed humility with regard to the details of business.  She felt the incongruity of herself, the elderly gentlewoman in the soft, rich, black silk, with the scarf of real lace fastened with a brooch of real pearls at the throat, with the cap of real lace, with the knots of lavender ribbon, on her fluff of white curls, remaining in the room while the discussion as to the rates of tea and coffee or sugar or soap went on.  So she slipped with her knitting-work into the dining-room, but she dropped her ball of white wool, which remained beside the chair which she had occupied in the sitting-room.  She was knitting a white shawl.  She sat beside the dining-table, and continued to knit, however, pulling furtively on the recreant ball, while her son ushered somebody into the sitting-room, asked him politely to be seated, and then closed the door.  That prevented her from knitting anymore, as the wool was held taut.  So she finally laid her work on the table and went out into the hall on her way up-stairs.  The door leading from the hall into the sitting-room was closed, and she stopped and eyed curiously the hat and coat on the old-fashioned mahogany table in the hall.  She stood looking at them from a distance of a few feet; then she wrapped her silk draperies closely around her and slid closer.  She passed her hand over the fine texture of the coat, which was redolent of cigar smoke.  She took up the hat.  Then she spied the top card on the little china card-basket on the table, and took it up.  It was Arthur Carroll’s.  She nodded her head, remained standing a moment listening to the inaudible murmur of conversation from the next room, then went up-stairs, to sit down in her old winged arm-chair, covered with a peacock-pattern chintz, and read until the visitor should be gone.  She was fairly quivering with astonishment and curiosity.  But she was no more astonished than her son had been when he had opened the front-door and seen Arthur Carroll standing there.  He had almost doubted the evidence of his eyes, especially when Carroll had accepted his invitation to enter, and had removed his coat and hat and followed him into the sitting-room.

“It is a cold night,” Anderson said, feeling that he must say something.

“Very, for the season,” replied Carroll, “and I have not yet, in spite of my long residence North, grown sufficiently accustomed to the heated houses and unheated out-of-doors to keep my top-coat on inside, even if I remain only a few minutes.”