for the rest of his life he would go up every evening between the cast-iron railings of that greenish-yellow doorstep, and pass through a Pompeian vestibule into a hall with a wainscoting of varnished yellow wood.  But beyond that his imagination could not travel.  He knew the drawing-room above had a bay window, but he could not fancy how May would deal with it.  She submitted cheerfully to the purple satin and yellow tuftings of the Welland drawing-room, to its sham Buhl tables and gilt vitrines full of modern Saxe.  He saw no reason to suppose that she would want anything different in her own house; and his only comfort was to reflect that she would probably let him arrange his library as he pleased—­which would be, of course, with “sincere” Eastlake furniture, and the plain new bookcases without glass doors.

The round-bosomed maid came in, drew the curtains, pushed back a log, and said consolingly:  “Verra—­verra.”  When she had gone Archer stood up and began to wander about.  Should he wait any longer?  His position was becoming rather foolish.  Perhaps he had misunderstood Madame Olenska—­perhaps she had not invited him after all.

Down the cobblestones of the quiet street came the ring of a stepper’s hoofs; they stopped before the house, and he caught the opening of a carriage door.  Parting the curtains he looked out into the early dusk.  A street-lamp faced him, and in its light he saw Julius Beaufort’s compact English brougham, drawn by a big roan, and the banker descending from it, and helping out Madame Olenska.

Beaufort stood, hat in hand, saying something which his companion seemed to negative; then they shook hands, and he jumped into his carriage while she mounted the steps.

When she entered the room she showed no surprise at seeing Archer there; surprise seemed the emotion that she was least addicted to.

“How do you like my funny house?” she asked.  “To me it’s like heaven.”

As she spoke she untied her little velvet bonnet and tossing it away with her long cloak stood looking at him with meditative eyes.

“You’ve arranged it delightfully,” he rejoined, alive to the flatness of the words, but imprisoned in the conventional by his consuming desire to be simple and striking.

“Oh, it’s a poor little place.  My relations despise it.  But at any rate it’s less gloomy than the van der Luydens’.”

The words gave him an electric shock, for few were the rebellious spirits who would have dared to call the stately home of the van der Luydens gloomy.  Those privileged to enter it shivered there, and spoke of it as “handsome.”  But suddenly he was glad that she had given voice to the general shiver.

“It’s delicious—­what you’ve done here,” he repeated.

“I like the little house,” she admitted; “but I suppose what I like is the blessedness of its being here, in my own country and my own town; and then, of being alone in it.”  She spoke so low that he hardly heard the last phrase; but in his awkwardness he took it up.