The front door of the car opened and the driver stepped out.

Echo O’Brien was a slender brunette of exceptional height. She was dressed in champagne colors: shoes with spiked heels, a close-fitting silk suit, beautifully tailored, a picture hat with an extravagantly wide brim; and in her hand she carried a huge pocketbook. All of her jewels looked like topaz: enormous ear drops, a choker at the throat, a dinner ring, even the clasp of her pocketbook.

She stood there, one hand holding her hat on at the crown, and looked up. It seemed to Clinton she looked directly into his eyes, but Echo O’Brien gave no sign that she saw him at all. To him, the sight of her standing there in that soft wash of sunlight was so dazzling that only some major disturbance could have drawn his eyes from it.

Now Clinton heard the front screen door open and close; and he saw Annabel rush forward across the path to greet the visitor. His mother had herself been at some pains to make a good appearance, and Clinton was surprised to realize that she did not suffer at all by this contrast with a beautiful, younger woman. With her well-painted face, her chestnut hair, her moss-colored dress and big emerald ear buttons, Annabel looked a handsome, self-assured forty. She talked incessantly, not even pausing when she touched her cheek against Echo O’Brien’s. Clinton observed that the visitor did not once get her mouth opened. But she smiled and nodded, and her outsized eyes seemed to scoop up and take in everything that was said.

These eyes were to affect Clinton even more profoundly at close range. They focused on a talker so completely that they seemed to serve the function of ears as well. They opened and closed, changed size and shape, lights danced within them—all in a pure and subtle response to what was being said. You had the impression all your words counted for something and would be remembered forever. You could place your heart itself in these great blue-green depths and it would dwell there safely, sensitively cared for, immortal. The eyes of Echo O’Brien were eyes that cared.

Now Ralph Williams entered Clinton’s field of vision. From around the corner of the house, he approached the tall stranger with one arm outstretched, all gallantry and charm. The sight of her seemed to have recharged some inner battery that brought to his welcome a kind of high-voltage sincerity that demanded respect: even Annabel was silent for these extravagant civilities. He bowed, kissed the visitor’s hand and held it as he looked up into her eyes and spoke to her. Then Ralph took her luggage from the car (two leather bags, rather large, Clinton thought, considering the brevity of her visit) and, walking with unusual lightness of step, carried it into the house. Arm in arm, Annabel and Echo followed him.

Clinton instantly quitted his station and flew to his bedroom. He put on fresh pajamas, combed his hair, and climbed into bed. There was much talk on the first floor, but he could not make out the words. In his eagerness to hear Echo’s voice, Clinton was momentarily tempted to get dressed, go downstairs, and declare himself well. But two thoughts deterred him: Annabel would surely tell Echo that her presence had brought about the cure, and pass remarks about it all through the weekend. And he felt he had to do much more thinking on certain matters before he left the sanctuary of sickness.