Sitting alone in the quiet place, Thornton was conscious of a silvery drip, drip of water.  Sound, like smell, has a power to arouse memory and control it.  Thornton’s thoughts flew back to the week he had spent in this old house with his girl wife.  He recalled the sunken room and the fountain with those wonderful figures modelled after Meredith.

Without taking into account the years and happenings that had made him more than a stranger to the family he got up and followed a haunting desire to see the room and the fountain again.

He passed through the drawing room and shrugged his shoulders.  It was arrogant, self-assured—­he hated that sort of thing.  The dining room was better—­a fine idea as to colour and furniture; the library, too—­Thornton paused and took a comprehensive glance.  He liked the library, and the fireplace was perfect.  He made a mental note.  Then he stepped down into the room with its memory-haunting fountain.  He had never seen it in action before, and so clever was the conceit that he drew back, fearing that the tossing sprays would reach him.  Then he sat down in a deep chair, crossed his legs, smiled, and looked about.

Here it was that Doris spent much of her time indoors.  The window was open and a rose vine was clinging to the frame, rich in bloom.  There was a work basket on the low, velvet-cushioned seat—­a child’s sock lay near it and several ridiculous toys, rigidly propped against the wall, as if on review.  Birds sang outside in the plum and peach trees and birds inside, not realizing their bondage, answered merrily—­the room was throbbing with life and joy and hope.  Thornton smiled, not a pleasant smile, and felt more important than he had felt in many a day; more powerful, too.

“Doris must be over thirty,” he mused, “and not of the marrying type.  There must be a pretty big pile to back all this.”  He got quickly to his feet, for Doris appeared just then at the doorway leading to the library.  She paused at the top of the stairs—­there was a strip of green velvet carpet running down the middle of the marble steps; her white gown came just to her ankles, and the narrow white-shod feet sank lightly into the green carpet as if it were moss.

“I am glad to see that you have made yourself comfortable, George,” she said, and smiled her very finest smile.  There was no hint of reproof in the tone, but Thornton instantly wondered if it would not have been wiser to have kept to the reception room.

“I hope I have not intruded,” he went to the steps and held out his hand, “it is home, you know, after all.”

This was meant to be conciliatory, but the appeal went astray.

“Let us sit by the window,” Doris remarked, “the air is delightful to-day.”

And then came the pause during which the path leading to an understanding must be chosen.  Doris left the choosing to Thornton.  He took the wrong one.