The man knocked at the door of the cottage, and Lucy opened it. She was still flushed from her walk, and in that dim, low-ceilinged room she seemed to him, with her fair hair that shone, her clear blue eyes, her scarlet jersey, almost impossibly vivid.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Does Mr. Phillips live here?”
“Oh, yes!” Lucy answered. “But he’s just gone out. You might catch him if—”
“I’d be sure to miss him,” the stranger declared, firmly. “If it won’t bother you, may I wait? I’ll just sit down out here.” And he indicated a very historic settle which was built into the porch. All the winds that blew, blew here; an eddy of leaves whirled about his feet, now, and Lucy could scarcely hold the door open.
“You’d better come in,” she suggested.
“Well, thank you,” said he.
Fresh from the stir and color of the windy day, the sitting room seemed to him unpleasantly chill and dark as Lucy closed the door behind him. The fire was out, for economy’s sake, and the tiny panes in the historic window did not admit much light.
“This is a pretty old house, isn’t it?” he observed.
“Awfully!” said Lucy. “Sit down, won’t you? That chair’s a hundred and fifty years old. And it’s one of the junior set, too!”
“I’ve heard about this place. Belonged to Mme. Van Der Dokjen, didn’t it?”