She lunched with Mrs. Holt, who had but just come to town; and the light, like a speeding guest, was departing from the city when she reached her own door.
“There is a gentleman in the drawing-room, madam,” said the butler. “He said he was an old friend, and a stranger in New York, and asked if he might wait.”
She stood still with presentiment.
“What is his name?” she asked.
“Mr. Erwin,” said the man.
Still she hesitated. In the strange state in which she found herself that day, the supernatural itself had seemed credible. And yet—she was not prepared.
“I beg pardon, madam,” the butler was saying, “perhaps I shouldn't—?”
“Yes, yes, you should,” she interrupted him, and pushed past him up the stairs. At the drawing-room door she paused—he was unaware of her presence. And he had not changed! She wondered why she had expected him to change. Even the glow of his newly acquired fame was not discernible behind his well-remembered head. He seemed no older—and no younger. And he was standing with his hands behind his back gazing in simple, silent appreciation at the big tapestry nearest the windows.
“Peter,” she said, in a low voice.
He turned quickly, and then she saw the glow. But it was the old glow, not the new—the light in which her early years had been spent.