"What in the world can you be thinking of me?" she said. "Alone in this old house, here among the remoter hills of Westchester. I live so vividly in the past that these almost forgotten tragedies seem very real to me and touch me closely. To me the present is only a shadow; the past is life itself. Can you understand?"
"I see," he said, intensely relieved concerning her mental stability; "you are a Daughter of the American Revolution or a Society of Colonial Wars or—er—something equally—er—interesting and desirable——"
"I am a Daughter of the American Revolution," she said proudly.
"Exactly," he smiled with an inward shudder. "A—a very interesting—er—and—exceedingly—and—all that sort of thing," he nodded amiably. "Don't take much interest in it myself—being a broker and rather busy——"
"I am sorry."
He looked up quickly and met her strange eyes, one hazel-grey, one hazel-brown.
"I—I'll be delighted to take an interest in anything you—in—er—this Revolutionary business if you—if you don't mind telling me about it," he stammered. "Evenings, now, if you have time to spare——"
She smiled, opened the door wider, and looked humorously down at him where he stood fidgeting on the step.
"Will you come in?" she asked serenely.
