He read the note twice, then tore it into small pieces and tossed them into the wastebasket. "Not I!" said he aloud, with a frown at the bits of violet note paper. Through all those weeks he had been hoping for, expecting, a message from her—something that would help him to feel there was in this world of enemies and timid, self-interested friends, at least the one person who understood and sympathized. But not a word had come; and his heart, so hard when it was hard, and so sensitive when it was touched at all, was sore and bitter.
Nevertheless, it was he and none other who appeared at five that afternoon, less than a block from Narcisse's house; and he wandered in wide circles about the neighborhood for at least an hour before his pride could shame him into dragging himself away. At three the next afternoon he rang Narcisse's bell. The man servant showed him into her small oval gray and dull gold salon which Raphael once said was probably the most perfect room in the modern world. Adjoining it was a conservatory, the two rooms being separated only by an alternation of mirrors and lattices, the lattices overrun with pink rambler in full bloom—and in the mirrors and through the opposite windows Armstrong saw the snow falling and lying white upon the trees and the lawns of the Park. In the center of the room was an open fire, its flue descending from the ceiling, but so constructed that it and its oval chimney-piece added to the effect of the room almost as much as the glimpses of the conservatory, seen through the rambler-grown lattices. And the scent of-growing flowers perfumed the air. These surroundings, this sudden summer bursting and beaming through the snow and ice of winter, had their inevitable effect upon Armstrong. He was beginning to look favorably upon several possible excuses for Neva. "She may not have heard of my troubles," he reflected. "She doesn't read the newspapers, and people wouldn't talk to her of anything concerning me."
She came in hurriedly, swathed in a coat of black broadtail, made very simply, its lines following her long, slim figure. The color was high in her cheeks; from her garments diffused the freshness of the winter air. "I shouldn't have been out," she explained, "but I had to go to see some one—Mrs. Trafford, who is ill."
Then he noted that her face was thinner than when he last saw it, that the look out of the eyes was weary. And for the moment he forgot his bitterness over her "utter desertion" of him when he really needed the cheer only a friend, a real friend, one beyond the suspicion of a possibility of self-interest, can give; deserted him in troubles which she herself had edged him on to precipitate. "When did you come?" he asked.
"Yesterday—yesterday morning. You see I sent you word immediately."
He looked ironic. "I saw in the newspaper this morning that Raphael landed yesterday."
"He dined here last night," replied she.
He turned as if about to go. "I can't imagine why you bothered to send for me," he said.
She showed that she was astonished and hurt. "Horace," she appealed, "why do you say that? I read about all those troubles."
"So, you did know!" He gave an abrupt, grim laugh. "And as you were coming on to see Raphael, why, you thought you'd do an act of Christian charity. Well, I wish I could oblige, but really, I don't need charity."