The sun had left the lower windows of our house, but mine and Hopestill’s on the third floor, and the servants’ above were red. I knew that within, the Cape Cod lighter on my hearth would cast forth blinding spears of light. For a moment, the scene seemed remembered, not perceived; it was as if some intelligence in my eyes themselves believed that they would take in the house with its green shutters, its brass letter-slot on the pure white door for the last time now and therefore saw all details overlaid by a film, by an impalpable smoke like the twilight which presently would absorb the sun. Perhaps the time had passed and I could not, save in imagination, traverse the short cobblestoned space between my vantage point and the door to which I owned a key. But then, immediately upon the full development of my feeling that Boston was a part of the past for me just as it was so completely for Hopestill, I was brought back to the present time and knew again that these realities had not diminished in size and in distinctness. Years hence they would perhaps, after Miss Pride was dead, and they would be like the trees of an avenue which perspective reduces and shrouds.

Through the doorway of the building on which an inscription read: Per Angusta ad Augusta, a man and woman emerged. The man put on his bowler, then drew on his gray suède gloves. Their voices carried across the quiet square.

“Is it too late to look in at Lucy Pride’s?” asked the woman.

Her companion took his watch out of his pocket. “It’s six. Wouldn’t that rush us? I dare say it wouldn’t, but even so I’d rather not at this hour. Lincoln Nephews is usually the only one left by this time, the old loiterer.”

The woman laughed. “You’re only angry because he gave you your comeuppance in charades.”

“Ulalume!” cried the man with bitter scorn. “Who but the most egotistical pedant would act out such a thing as that!”

They moved on down Pinckney Street and I ran across to Miss Pride’s house. As I fitted my key to the lock, I noticed that the last of the rosy light had gone and that over the steep street lay a topaz patina. Far below, the fragment of the Charles was pure, cold, blue, and across it, a single sail, like a perfect iceberg, moved slowly. From within the house came the Admiral’s voice, so close to me I knew he was about to open the door and I withdrew my key to wait for him. “Good-by, Lucy. I’ll be back in an hour. Back to Lucy’s cot where she dwells in untrodden ways. Ma’am, that was a bang-up tea you gave me. I’m so stimulated I could go waltzing and not peter out till morning.”