All at once, it occurred to me how very absurd was my behavior in thus tormenting myself with crazy hypotheses as to what was going on within that drawing-room, when it was at my option to be personally present there, My relations with Zenobia, as yet unchanged,—­as a familiar friend, and associated in the same life-long enterprise,—­ gave me the right, and made it no more than kindly courtesy demanded, to call on her.  Nothing, except our habitual independence of conventional rules at Blithedale, could have kept me from sooner recognizing this duty.  At all events, it should now be performed.

In compliance with this sudden impulse, I soon found myself actually within the house, the rear of which, for two days past, I had been so sedulously watching.  A servant took my card, and, immediately returning, ushered me upstairs.  On the way, I heard a rich, and, as it were, triumphant burst of music from a piano, in which I felt Zenobia’s character, although heretofore I had known nothing of her skill upon the instrument.  Two or three canary-birds, excited by this gush of sound, sang piercingly, and did their utmost to produce a kindred melody.  A bright illumination streamed through, the door of the front drawing-room; and I had barely stept across the threshold before Zenobia came forward to meet me, laughing, and with an extended hand.

“Ah, Mr. Coverdale,” said she, still smiling, but, as I thought, with a good deal of scornful anger underneath, “it has gratified me to see the interest which you continue to take in my affairs!  I have long recognized you as a sort of transcendental Yankee, with all the native propensity of your countrymen to investigate matters that come within their range, but rendered almost poetical, in your case, by the refined methods which you adopt for its gratification.  After all, it was an unjustifiable stroke, on my part,—­was it not?—­to let down the window curtain!”

“I cannot call it a very wise one,” returned I, with a secret bitterness, which, no doubt, Zenobia appreciated.  “It is really impossible to hide anything in this world, to say nothing of the next.  All that we ought to ask, therefore, is, that the witnesses of our conduct, and the speculators on our motives, should be capable of taking the highest view which the circumstances of the case may admit.  So much being secured, I, for one, would be most happy in feeling myself followed everywhere by an indefatigable human sympathy.”

“We must trust for intelligent sympathy to our guardian angels, if any there be,” said Zenobia.  “As long as the only spectator of my poor tragedy is a young man at the window of his hotel, I must still claim the liberty to drop the curtain.”