Scott Homer wore exactly, to his sister’s eyes, the aspect he had worn the day before, and it also formed to her sense the great feature of his impartial greeting.

“How d’ye do, Mamie? How d’ye do, Lady Wantridge?”

“How d’ye do again?” Lady Wantridge replied with an equanimity striking to her hostess. It was as if Scott’s own had been contagious; it was almost indeed as if she had seen him before. Had she ever so seen him — before the previous day? While Miss Cutter put to herself this question her visitor at all events met the one she had previously uttered. “Ever ‘forgive’?” this personage echoed in a tone that made as little account as possible of the interruption. “Dear yes! The people I HAVE forgiven!” She laughed — perhaps a little nervously; and she was now looking at Scott. The way she looked at him was precisely what had already had its effect for his sister. “The people I can!”

“Can you forgive me?” asked Scott Homer.

She took it so easily. “But — what?”

Mamie interposed; she turned directly to her brother. “Don’t try her. Leave it so.” She had had an inspiration, it was the most extraordinary thing in the world. “Don’t try HIM” — she had turned to their companion. She looked grave, sad, strange. “Leave it so.” Yes, it was a distinct inspiration, which she couldn’t have explained, but which had come, prompted by something she had caught — the extent of the recognition expressed — in Lady Wantridge’s face. It had come absolutely of a sudden, straight out of the opposition of the two figures before her — quite as if a concussion had struck a light. The light was helped by her quickened sense that her friend’s silence on the incident of the day before showed some sort of consciousness. She looked surprised. “Do you know my brother?”

“DO I know you?” Lady Wantridge asked of him.

“No, Lady Wantridge,” Scott pleasantly confessed, “not one little mite!”

“Well then if you MUST go — ” and Mamie offered her a hand. “But I’ll go down with you. NOT YOU!” she launched at her brother, who immediately effaced himself. His way of doing so — and he had already done so, as for Lady Wantridge, in respect to their previous encounter — struck her even at the moment as an instinctive if slightly blind tribute to her possession of an idea; and as such, in its celerity, made her so admire him, and their common wit, that she on the spot more than forgave him his queerness. He was right. He could be as queer as he liked! The queerer the better! It was at the foot of the stairs, when she had got her guest down, that what she had assured Mrs. Medwin would come did indeed come. “DID you meet him here yesterday?”

“Dear yes. Isn’t he too funny?”

“Yes,” said Mamie gloomily. “He IS funny. But had you ever met him before?”

“Dear no!”

“Oh!” — and Mamie’s tone might have meant many things.

Lady Wantridge however, after all, easily overlooked it. “I only knew he was one of your odd Americans. That’s why, when I heard yesterday here that he was up there awaiting your return, I didn’t let that prevent me. I thought he might be. He certainly,” her ladyship laughed, “IS.”

“Yes, he’s very American,” Mamie went on in the same way.

“As you say, we ARE fond of you! Good-bye,” said Lady Wantridge.

But Mamie had not half done with her. She felt more and more — or she hoped at least — that she looked strange. She WAS, no doubt, if it came to that, strange. “Lady Wantridge,” she almost convulsively broke out, “I don’t know whether you’ll understand me, but I seem to feel that I must act with you — I don’t know what to call it! — responsibly. He IS my brother.”

“Surely — and why not?” Lady Wantridge stared. “He’s the image of you!”

“Thank you!” — and Mamie was stranger than ever.

“Oh he’s good-looking. He’s handsome, my dear. Oddly — but distinctly!” Her ladyship was for treating it much as a joke.

But Mamie, all sombre, would have none of this. She boldly gave him up. “I think he’s awful.”

“He is indeed — delightfully. And where DO you get your ways of saying things? It isn’t anything — and the things aren’t anything. But it’s so droll.”

“Don’t let yourself, all the same,” Mamie consistently pursued, “be carried away by it. The thing can’t be done — simply.”

Lady Wantridge wondered. “‘Done simply’?”

“Done at all.”

“But what can’t be?”

“Why, what you might think — from his pleasantness. What he spoke of your doing for him.”

Lady Wantridge recalled. “Forgiving him?”

“He asked you if you couldn’t. But you can’t. It’s too dreadful for me, as so near a relation, to have, loyally — loyally to YOU— to say it. But he’s impossible.”

It was so portentously produced that her ladyship had somehow to meet it. “What’s the matter with him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then what’s the matter with YOU?” Lady Wantridge inquired.

“It’s because I WON’T know,” Mamie — not without dignity — explained.

“Then I won’t either.”

“Precisely. Don’t. It’s something,” Mamie pursued, with some inconsequence, “that — somewhere or other, at some time or other — he appears to have done. Something that has made a difference in his life.”

“‘Something’?” Lady Wantridge echoed again. “What kind of thing?”

Mamie looked up at the light above the door, through which the London sky was doubly dim. “I haven’t the least idea.”

“Then what kind of difference?”

Mamie’s gaze was still at the light. “The difference you see.”

Lady Wantridge, rather obligingly, seemed to ask herself what she saw. “But I don’t see any! It seems, at least,” she added, “such an amusing one! And he has such nice eyes.&rdquo............