But answer--if you still think well of me.
"AILSA PAIGE." A touch of rose still tinted the sky overhead, but already the lamp lighters were illuminating the street lamps as he came to London Terrace--that quaint stretch of old-time houses set back from the street, solemnly windowed, roofed, and pilastered; decorously screened behind green trees and flowering bushes ringed by little lawns of emerald.
For a moment, after entering the iron gateway and mounting the steps, he stood looking up at her abode.

Overhead the silken folds of the flag hung motionless in the calm evening air; and all the place about him was sweet with the scent of bridal-wreath and early iris.
Then, at his tardy summons, the door of her house opened to him.
He went in and stood in the faded drawing-room, where the damask curtain folds were drawn against the primrose dusk and a single light glimmered like a star high among the pendant prisms of the chandelier.
Later a servant came and gave the room more light.

Then he waited for a long while.

And at last she entered.
Her hands were cold--he noticed it as the fingers touched his, briefly, and were withdrawn.

She had scarcely glanced at him, and she had not yet uttered a word when they were seated.