He turned into Fifth Avenue and continued his way to Fifty-eighth Street. Before the door of the rectory, which was at the distance of a stone's-throw from the church, a carriage was drawn up to the sidewalk, and as he passed his name was called softly in a woman's voice:
"It is I—Mrs. Bruce Ryder. I have been waiting in the hope of seeing you."
He paused on the sidewalk and his hand closed over the one she gave him. She was a large, fair woman, with a superb head and shoulders, and slow, massive movements, such as the women of the old masters must have had.
"It is to force a promise that you will dine with me to-morrow," she said. "You have disappointed me so often—and I must talk with you." Her voice had a caressing inflection akin to the maternal.
He smiled into her expectant face.
"Yes," he said. "To-morrow—yes; I will do so. That is, if you won't wait for me if I am detained."
"That is kind," she responded. "I know you hate it. And I won't wait. I remember that you don't eat oysters."
The maternal suggestion in her manner had deepened. She laughed softly, pleased at the knowledge of his trivial tastes her words betrayed.
"But I won't keep you," she went on, "Thank you again—and good-bye."
The carriage rolled into the street, and he drew out a latch-key and let himself in at the rectory door, which opened on the sidewalk.