“A slight business acquaintance,” replied Anderson, wonderingly.

“I saw,” said Carroll, in an odd, breathless sort of voice, “an advertisement for a—­floor-walker in that house.  I wondered, in the event of my applying for it, if you would be willing to give me a letter of introduction to one of the firm, if you were sufficiently acquainted.”

“Certainly,” said Anderson, but he was aware that he almost gasped out the answer.

“I saw the advertisement,” said Carroll again.  “I have to make some change in my business, and”—­he essayed a laugh—­“I have to think, as we have agreed is the thing to do, of some salable wares in my possession.  It did occur to me that I might make a passable floor-walker.  I have even thought of a drum-major, but there seems no vacancy in that line.  If you would.”

“Certainly,” said Anderson again.  “Would you like it now?”

“If it is not too much trouble.”

Anderson hastened to the old-fashioned secretary in the sitting-room and wrote a line of introduction on a card while Carroll waited.

“Thank you,” Carroll said, taking it and placing it carefully in his pocket-book.  The two men shook hands again; Carroll went with his stately stride down the street.  It was snowing a little.  Anderson thought idly how he had not offered him an umbrella, as he saw the flakes driving past the electric light outside as he pulled down the window-curtains, but he was as yet too dazed to fully appreciate anything.  He was dazed both by his own procedure and by that of the other man.  It was as if two knights in a mock tourney had met, both riding at full speed.  He had his own momentum and that of the other in the shock of meeting.

His mother’s door opened as he went up-stairs with his night-lamp, and her head in a white lace-trimmed cap, for she still clung to the night-gear of her early youth, peered out at him.

“Who was it?” she asked, softly, as if the guest were still within hearing.

“Captain Carroll.”

“Oh!”

“He came on business.”

“He stayed quite awhile.  You had a little call with him?”

“Yes, mother.”

She still looked at him, her face, of gentle, wistful curiosity, dimly visible between the lace ruffles of her nightcap, in the door.

“He spoke of your calling there this afternoon, and he seemed much pleased,” Anderson said.

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, good-night, dear,” said Mrs. Anderson, with an odd, half-troubled but rather enjoyable sigh.  Her son kissed her, and she disappeared.  She got back into bed, and put her lamp out.  The electric light outside streamed into her room and brought back to her mind moonlight reveries of her early maidenhood.  She remembered how she used, before she ever had a lover, to lie awake and dream of one.  Then she fell to planning how, in the event of Randolph’s marrying, the front chamber could be refurnished, and the furniture in that room put in the northwest chamber, which was sparsely furnished and little used except for storage purposes.  Then the northwest room could be the guest-chamber, and Randolph’s present room would answer very well for his books, and would be a study when the bed was taken down.