It was near the middle of August, and for the first time I was thankful that an earlier migration had not been feasible in my case.
In spite of my telegram Mrs.Evers was not at home when I arrived, but she had left a message which more than explained matters.

She was lunching out, but only in Brechin Place, and I was to wait in the study if I did not mind.

I did not, and yet I did, for the room in which Catherine certainly read her books and wrote her letters was also the scene of that which I was beginning to find it rather hard work to forget as it was.

Nor had it changed any more than her handwriting, or than the woman herself as I confidently expected to find her now.

I have often thought that at about forty both sexes stand still to the eye, and I did not expect Catherine Evers, who could barely have reached that rubicon, to show much symptom of the later marches.