“It’s a queer world, Pat,” she said helplessly. “Here am I, and as for you—I had hoped Tony would divorce her and marry you.”

“Not a chance,” I said as lightly as I could. Then a man’s voice called Lydia from above, and young as I had been when I last heard it, eleven or thereabouts, I recognized it.

“If that’s little Pat Abbott,” it said, “bring her up, Lydia.”

There was nothing else to do, and then and there I had my first and last view of Don Morgan after his return. How old was he at the time? Over fifty, I imagine, yet he had kept that curly hair of his and his disarming smile. Outside of that he was changed, of course. He looked dissipated as well as sick. There were pouches under his eyes and his well-kept hands had a slight tremor. He was sitting in a chair by a window when I went in.

“Well,” he said, “so the little girl has grown into a woman! And a lovely one too. Sit down for a minute, Pat, and talk to a lonely old man.” That was purely rhetorical. The Don Morgans of this world may change but they do not grow old.

I sat down, and he lit a cigarette and gave me one. It was then that I noticed the tremor.

“Now tell me all about yourself. Audrey says you are up on the Hill. Like it there?”

“I like Mrs. Wainwright,” I said briefly.

“There’s a son, isn’t there? How about him?”

“I don’t see very much of him.”

He gave me a quick sharp look, but he made no comment. Instead he talked about himself, and I began to understand the hold he evidently held over Audrey; the easy, beautiful voice, the youthful smile, even the debonair manner in which he announced that he was not long for this world.

“Not that I mind,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve made my mistakes and been damned sorry for them, and Lydia is a saint. But I’ve lived my life, my dear.”

I left him in that gently melancholy mood, sitting by a window facing the river, a box of cigarettes at his elbow and a book on his knees, clad—under an elaborate dressing gown—in heavy blue silk pajamas. Penniless he might have been, but he had certainly brought his wardrobe with him.

I never saw him again.

It was late that afternoon when I got back to the Cloisters, to meet Bessie in the west hall. She had evidently been telephoning, for she had a list in her hand.

“Look here, Pat,” she said. “I’m having some people at the playhouse tonight. Tell old Partridge, will you? Sandwiches and so on for twenty, and plenty to drink.”

I looked at my wrist watch. “The shops will be closing soon,” I told her. “I suppose it can be managed.”

“It’s got to be managed,” she said coolly, and went on up the stairs.

I went down to the village myself to save time. Poor Mrs. Partridge was frantic, and Pierre stiff and sulky in his chef’s cap and apron. But we did get food and drink ready before her guests arrived. They were mostly from the city, with a sprinkling of the less desirable from the Hill. None of them came to the house, however, where Maud and I played double solitaire up in her boudoir, and Tony had escaped by the simple device of getting into his car and driving off.