Violet, with a meaning look at her brother, ran up the steps at Roger’s side.  As she did so, the old man turned and Violet was astonished at the wistfulness with which he viewed her.

“What a dear old creature!” she murmured.  “See how he stares this way.  You would think he knew me.”

“He is glad to see a woman about the place.  He has felt our isolation—­Good evening, Abram.  Let this young lady have a spray of your sweetest honeysuckle.  And, Abram, before you go, how is Father to-night?  Still sitting up?”

“Yes, sir.  He is very regular in his ways.  Nine is his hour; not a minute before and not a minute later.  I don’t have to look at the clock when he says:  ‘There, Abram, I’ve sat up long enough.’”

“When my father retires before his time or goes to bed without a final look at the sea, he will be a very sick man, Abram.”

“That he will, Mr. Roger; that he will.  But he’s very feeble to-night, very feeble.  I noticed that he gave the boy fewer kisses than usual.  Perhaps he was put out because the child was brought in a half-hour earlier than the stated time.  He don’t like changes; you know that, Mr. Roger; he don’t like changes.  I hardly dared to tell him that the servants were all going out in a bunch to-night.”

“I’m sorry,” muttered Roger.  “But he’ll forget it by to-morrow.  I couldn’t bear to keep a single one from the concert.  They’ll be back in good season and meantime we have you.  Abram is worth half a dozen of them, Miss Strange.  We shall miss nothing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Roger, thank you,” faltered the old man.  “I try to do my duty.”  And with another wistful glance at Violet, who looked very sweet and youthful in the half-light, he pottered away.

The silence which followed his departure was as painful to her as to Roger Upjohn.  When she broke it it was with this decisive remark: 

“That man must not speak of me to your father.  He must not even mention that you have a guest to-night.  Run after him and tell him so.  It is necessary that your father’s mind should not be taken up with present happenings.  Run.”

Roger made haste to obey her.  When he came back she was on the point of joining her brother but stopped to utter a final injunction: 

“I shall leave the library, or wherever we may be sitting, just as the clock strikes half-past eight.  Arthur will do the same, as by that time he will feel like smoking on the terrace.  Do not follow either him or myself, but take your stand here on the piazza where you can get a full view of the right-hand wing without attracting any attention to yourself.  When you hear the big clock in the hall strike nine, look up quickly at your father’s window.  What you see may determine—­oh, Arthur! still admiring the prospect?  I do not wonder.  But I find it chilly.  Let us go in.”

Roger Upjohn, sitting by himself in the library, was watching the hands of the mantel clock slowly approaching the hour of nine.