“Oh, I thought you were Mr. Bentley,” she said.

“Have you been waiting long?” he asked.

“Three quarters of an hour, but I haven’t minded it.  This is such an interesting room, with its pictures and relics and books.  It has a soothing effect, hasn’t it?  To come here is like stepping out of the turmoil of the modern world into a peaceful past.”

He was struck by the felicity of her description.

“You have been here before?” he asked.

“Yes.”  She settled herself in the armchair; and Hodder, accepting the situation, took the seat beside her.  “Of course I came, after I had found out who Mr. Bentley was.  The opportunity to know him again—­was not to be missed.”

“I can understand that,” he assented.

“That is, if a child can even be said to know such a person as Mr. Bentley.  Naturally, I didn’t appreciate him in those days—­children merely accept, without analyzing.  And I have not yet been able to analyze,—­I can only speculate and consider.”

Her enthusiasm never failed to stir and excite Hodder.  Nor would he have thought it possible that a new value could be added to Mr. Bentley in his eyes.  Yet so it was.

He felt within him, as she spoke, the quickening of a stimulus.

“When I came in a little while ago,” Alison continued, “I found a woman in black, with such a sweet, sad face.  We began a conversation.  She had been through a frightful experience.  Her husband had committed suicide, her child had been on the point of death, and she says that she lies awake nights now thinking in terror of what might have happened to her if you and Mr. Bentley hadn’t helped her.  She’s learning to be a stenographer.  Do you remember her?—­her name is Garvin.”

“Did she say—­anything more?” Hodder anxiously demanded.

“No,” said Alison, surprised by his manner, “except that Mr. Bentley had found her a place to live, near the hospital, with a widow who was a friend of his.  And that the child was well, and she could look life in the face again.  Oh, it is terrible to think that people all around us are getting into such straits, and that we are so indifferent to it!”

Hodder did not speak at once.  He was wondering, now that she had renewed her friendship with Mr. Bentley, whether certain revelations on her part were not inevitable . . . .

She was regarding him, and he was aware that her curiosity was aflame.  Again he wondered whether it were curiosity or—­interest.

“You did not tell me, when we met in the Park, that you were no longer at St. John’s.”

Did Mr. Bentley tell you?”

“No.  He merely said he saw a great deal of you.  Martha Preston told me.  She is still here, and goes to church occasionally.  She was much surprised to learn that you were in the city.

“I am still living in the parish house,” he said.  “I am—­taking my vacation.”

“With Mr. Bentley?” Her eyes were still on his face.