"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.
"What a coincidence!" she exclaimed, as he took her hand.
"Coincidence?"
"It was only this morning that I was reading in the newspaper all sorts of nice things about you. It made me feel like going out and telling everybody you were an old friend of mine." Still holding his fingers, she pushed him away from her at arm's length, and looked at him. "What does it feel like to be famous, and have editorials about one's self in the New York newspapers?"
He laughed, and released his hands somewhat abruptly.