Just as the light was failing the maid appeared. There was a gentleman downstairs—young gentleman, yes; his name was Weston. Halo dropped her brushes and wiped her hands hurriedly. She had forgotten all about young Weston! But she was glad that, now it was too dark to paint, he was there to fill in the end of the day.

Would she find him the same? Or had he changed? Would she still catch the shadow of the laurel on his forehead? As she entered the library her first impression was that he was shorter—smaller, altogether—than she had remembered; but then she had lived in the interval with a man of dominating height. This youth—how young he still looked!—met her eyes on a level. He had broadened a little; his brown hair with the slight wave in it had grown darker, she thought. This was all she had time to note, for before she could even greet him he had exclaimed: "There must be more books here than at the Willows!" Ah, how that brought him back—that way of going straight to his object, dashing through all the customary preliminaries, yet so quietly, so simply, that it seemed the natural thing to do.

She looked at him with a faint smile. "You care for books as much as ever?"

Instead of answering he said: "Can I borrow some of these, do you think? I've got to buckle down to work at once. I see they're classed by subjects; ah, here's philosophy… ." Half annoyed, half amused at being treated like a librarian (an assistant librarian, she ironically corrected herself) she asked him if philosophy were what he was studying, and he said, yes, chiefly; that and Italian—so as to be able to read Dante.

"Dante?" she exclaimed. "We lived in Italy a good deal when I was a child. Perhaps I could help you with Dante."

His face lit up. "Oh, could you? Say, could I come round evenings, three or four times a week, and read him with you after supper?"

A little taken aback she said she was not sure she could be free as often as that in the evening. They went out a good deal, she and her husband, she explained—to the theatre, to concerts … in a big place like New York there were always so many things to do in the evening. She forbore to mention that frequent dining-out was among them. Couldn't he, she suggested, come in the early afternoon instead—she was often free till four. But he shook his head, obviously disappointed. "No, I couldn't do that. I've got to stick to my own writing in the daytime."