A sudden blast of wind brought a start and a muffled exclamation from the guest, and at the same instant a stamping sounded outside. The lamp-flames rose wildly, and smoked in the instant of opening the door wide enough to admit the lithe form of a man whose shoulders and soft felt hat glistened with snow. He quickly closed the door and stamped again, taking off the hat from his short damp locks and shaking it vigorously.
"Phil, this is my cousin, Mrs. Fabian," said Mrs. Sidney. "You used to call her Aunt Isabel when you were a little chap and we went to visit her once. Do you remember?"
"When a cousin is once removed she becomes an aunt," declared Mrs. Fabian, looking the young man over with approval.
"My hand is too wet to shake," he said, meeting her interested gaze, his own luminous in the firelight.
"Lucky boy! You have your mother's eyes!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, no," said Mary Sidney; "Phil's are blue."
"Dark with terror, then!" exclaimed Mrs. Fabian, again anxious. "Isn't the storm frightful?"
Phil's amused glance sought his mother's.
"It's sort of spitting outside," he returned, unbuttoning his corduroy coat.
"You're making fun of a tenderfoot," said Mrs. Fabian, watching his keen face admiringly. "Don't pretend. What have you done with my poor innocent husband?"