“Improbable?” commented the listener.  “Your blood is too temperate.”

“So I thought; but one never knows.  Unexpected feelings crop up in a fellow.  We won’t talk about it just now.  How have things been going in the architectural line?”

“Not amiss.  Steadily, I think.”

Narramore lay back at full length, his face turned to the ceiling.

“Since I’ve been living out yonder, I’ve got a taste for the country.  I have a notion that, if brass bedsteads keep firm, I shall some day build a little house of my own; an inexpensive little house, with a tree or two about it.  Just make me a few sketches, will you?  When you’ve nothing better to do, you know.”

He played with the idea, till it took strong hold of him, and he began to talk with most unwonted animation.

“Five or six thousand pounds—­I ought to be able to sink that in a few years.  Not enough, eh?  But I don’t want a mansion.  I’m quite serious about this, Hilliard.  When you re feeling ready to start on your own account, you shall have the job.”

Hilliard laughed grimly at the supposition that he would ever attain professional independence, but his friend talked on, and overleaped difficulties with a buoyancy of spirit which ultimately had its effect upon the listener.  When he was alone again, Hilliard felt better, both in body and mind, and that evening, over the first bottle of Narramore’s port, he amused himself with sketching ideal cottages.

“The fellow’s in love, at last.  When a man thinks of pleasant little country houses, ‘with a tree or two’ about them——­”

He sighed, and ground his teeth, and sketched on.

Before bedtime, a sudden and profound shame possessed him.  Was he not behaving outrageously in neglecting to answer Eve’s letter?  For all he knew the cold of which she complained might have caused her more suffering than he himself had gone through from the like cause, and that was bad enough.  He seized paper and wrote to her as he had never written before, borne on the very high flood of passionate longing.  Without regard to prudence he left the house at midnight and posted his letter.

“It never occurred to me to blame you for not writing,” Eve quickly replied; “I’m afraid you are more sensitive than I am, and, to tell the truth, I believe men generally are more sensitive than women in things of this kind.  It pleased me very much to hear of the visit you had had from Mr. Narramore, and that he had cheered you.  I do so wish I could have come, but I have really been quite ill, and I must not think of risking a journey till the weather improves.  Don’t trouble about it; I will write often.”