How the words came back to him, out of that vivid past.  But to-night—­why, there was no—­God!  Was he the fool who had once seen God—­in a storm?

He shut the window, and finding a heavy coat and an old cap put them on.  Then he made his way, softly, down the tower steps to the side door.  Mary had pointed out to him that this entrance would make it possible for him to go and come as he pleased.  To-night it pleased him to walk in the beating rain.

At the far end of the garden there was an old fountain, in which a bronze boy rode on a bronze dolphin.  The basin of the fountain was filled with sodden leaves.  A street lamp at the foot of the terrace illumined the bronze boy’s face so that it seemed to wear a twisted grin.  It was as if he laughed at the storm and at life, defying the elements with his sardonic mirth.

Back and forth, restlessly, went the lonely man, hating to enter again the rooms which only a few hours before had seemed a refuge.  It would have been better to have stayed in his last cheap boarding-house, better to have kept away from this place which brought memories—­better never to have seen this group of young folk who were gay as he had once been gay—­better never to have seen—­Mary Ballard!

He glanced up at the room beneath his own where her light still burned.  He wondered if she had stayed awake to think of the young Apollo of the auburn head.  Perhaps he was already her accepted lover.  And why not?

Why should he care who loved Mary Ballard?

He had never believed in love at first sight.  He didn’t believe in it now.  He only knew that he had been thrilled by a look, warmed by a friendliness, touched by a frankness and sincerity such as he had found in no other woman.  And because he had been thrilled and warmed and touched by these things, he was feeling to-night the deadly mockery of a fate which had brought her too late into his life.

* * * * * *

Coming in, shivering and excited after her ride with Porter, Mary had found evidence of Aunt Isabelle’s solicitous care for her.  Her fire was burning brightly, the covers of her bed were turned down, her blue dressing-gown and the little blue slippers were warming in front of the blaze.

“No one ever did such things for me before,” Mary said with appreciation, as the gentle lady came in to kiss her niece good-night.  “Mother wasn’t that kind.  We all waited on her.  And Susan Jenks is too busy; it isn’t right to keep her up.  And anyway I’ve always been more like a boy, taking care of myself.  Constance was the one we petted, Con and mother.”

“I love to do it,” Aunt Isabelle said, eagerly.  “When I am at Frances’ there are so many servants, and I feel pushed out.  There’s nothing that I can do for any one.  Grace and Frances each have a maid.  So I live my own life, and sometimes it has been—­lonely.”

“You darling.”  Mary laid her cool young lips against the soft cheek.  “I’m dead lonely, too.  That’s why I wanted you.”