There was an argument.  James lost.  Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it through the house unpleasantly.  I did not say he was a gentleman.  He was simply a tramp being visited by a ghost.

A sterling silver bell rang.  James went back to answer it, leaving Fuzzy in the hall.  James explained somewhere to some one.

Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library.

The lady entered a moment later.  She was more beautiful and holy than any picture that Fuzzy had seen.  She smiled, and said something about a doll.  Fuzzy didn’t understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll.

A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped sterling-silver waiter.  The Lady took one.  The other was handed to Fuzzy.

As his fingers closed on the slender glass stem his disabilities dropped from him for one brief moment.  He straightened himself; and Time, so disobliging to most of us, turned backward to accommodate Fuzzy.

Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most opulent Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan’s whisky.  What had the Millionaire’s mansion to do with a long, wainscoted Virginia hall, where the riders were grouped around a silver punch-bowl, drinking the ancient toast of the House?  And why should the patter of the cab horses’ hoofs on the frozen street be in any wise related to the sound of the saddled hunters stamping under the shelter of the west veranda?  And what had Fuzzy to do with any of it?

The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile fade away like a false dawn.  Her eyes turned serious.  She saw something beneath the rags and Scotch terrier whiskers that she did not understand.  But it did not matter.

Fuzzy lifted his glass and smiled vacantly.

“P-pardon, lady,” he said, “but couldn’t leave without exchangin’ comp’ments sheason with lady th’ house.  ’Gainst princ’ples gen’leman do sho.”

And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the House when men wore lace ruffles and powder.

“The blessings of another year—­”

Fuzzy’s memory failed him.  The Lady prompted: 

“—­Be upon this hearth.”

“—­The guest—­” stammered Fuzzy.

“—­And upon her who—­” continued the Lady, with a leading smile.

“Oh, cut it out,” said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly.  “I can’t remember.  Drink hearty.”

Fuzzy had shot his arrow.  They drank.  The Lady smiled again the smile of her caste.  James enveloped and re-conducted him toward the front door.  The harp music still softly drifted through the house.

Outside, Black Riley breathed on his cold hands and hugged the gate.

“I wonder,” said the Lady to herself, musing, “who—­but there were so many who came.  I wonder whether memory is a curse or a blessing to them after they have fallen so low.”

Fuzzy and his escort were nearly at the door.  The Lady called:  “James!”