which had to be quitted, as it were, by the back door; but here, as he perceived, the main portals would have opened for him of their own accord.  All this, and much more, he read in the finished naturalness with which Mrs. Vervain had met Miss Gaynor.  He had never seen a better piece of work:  there was no over-eagerness, no suspicious warmth, above all (and this gave her art the grace of a natural quality) there were none of those damnable implications whereby a woman, in welcoming her friend’s betrothed, may keep him on pins and needles while she laps the lady in complacency.  So masterly a performance, indeed, hardly needed the offset of Miss Gaynor’s door-step words—­“To be so kind to me, how she must have liked you!”—­though he caught himself wishing it lay within the bounds of fitness to transmit them, as a final tribute, to the one woman he knew who was unfailingly certain to enjoy a good thing.  It was perhaps the one drawback to his new situation that it might develop good things which it would be impossible to hand on to Margaret Vervain.

The fact that he had made the mistake of underrating his friend’s powers, the consciousness that his writing must have betrayed his distrust of her efficiency, seemed an added reason for turning down her street instead of going on to the club.  He would show her that he knew how to value her; he would ask her to achieve with him a feat infinitely rarer and more delicate than the one he had appeared to avoid.  Incidentally, he would also dispose of the interval of time before dinner:  ever since he had seen Miss Gaynor off, an hour earlier, on her return journey to Buffalo, he had been wondering how he should put in the rest of the afternoon.  It was absurd, how he missed the girl....Yes, that was it; the desire to talk about her was, after all, at the bottom of his impulse to call on Mrs. Vervain!  It was absurd, if you like—­but it was delightfully rejuvenating.  He could recall the time when he had been afraid of being obvious:  now he felt that this return to the primitive emotions might be as restorative as a holiday in the Canadian woods.  And it was precisely by the girl’s candor, her directness, her lack of complications, that he was taken.  The sense that she might say something rash at any moment was positively exhilarating:  if she had thrown her arms about him at the station he would not have given a thought to his crumpled dignity.  It surprised Thursdale to find what freshness of heart he brought to the adventure; and though his sense of irony prevented his ascribing his intactness to any conscious purpose, he could but rejoice in the fact that his sentimental economies had left him such a large surplus to draw upon.

Mrs. Vervain was at home—­as usual.  When one visits the cemetery one expects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale as another proof of his friend’s good taste that she had been in no undue haste to change her habits.  The whole house appeared to count on his coming; the footman took his hat and overcoat as naturally as though there had been no lapse in his visits; and the drawing-room at once enveloped him in that atmosphere of tacit intelligence which Mrs. Vervain imparted to her very furniture.