It was furnished
with the cast-off possessions of his bachelor
days and with odd things which he sheltered
for friends of his who followed itinerant and
more or less artistic callings. Over the fireplace
there was a large old-fashioned gilt mirror.
Alexander's big work-table stood in front
of one of the three windows, and above the
couch hung the one picture in the room, a big
canvas of charming color and spirit, a study
of the Luxembourg Gardens in early spring,
painted in his youth by a man who had since
become a portrait-painter of international
renown. He had done it for Alexander when
they were students together in Paris.
Sunday was a cold, raw day and a fine rain
fell continuously. When Alexander came back
from dinner he put more wood on his fire,
made himself comfortable, and settled
down at his desk, where he began checking
over estimate sheets. It was after nine o'clock
and he was lighting a second pipe, when he
thought he heard a sound at his door. He
started and listened, holding the burning
match in his hand; again he heard the same
sound, like a firm, light tap. He rose and
crossed the room quickly. When he threw
open the door he recognized the figure that
shrank back into the bare, dimly lit hallway.
He stood for a moment in awkward constraint,
his pipe in his hand.
"Come in," he said to Hilda at last, and
closed the door behind her. He pointed to a
chair by the fire and went back to his worktable.
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