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“Yes,” she answered. “It never let well. The last people who had it gave it up at Christmas. It seemed the best thing to do, even from a purely economical point of view.

“What have you been doing all these years?” she asked him.

“Oh, knocking about,” he answered. “Earning my living.” He was curious to discover what she thought of Matthew, first of all.

“It seems to have agreed with you,” she commented, with a glance that took him in generally, including his clothes.

“Yes,” he answered. “I have had more luck than perhaps I deserved.”

“I am glad of that,” said Ann.

He laughed. “So you haven’t changed so very much,” he said. “Except in appearance.

“Isn’t that the most important part of a woman?” suggested Ann.

“Yes,” he answered, thinking. “I suppose it is.”

She was certainly very beautiful.

“How long are you stopping in New York?” she asked him.

“Oh, not long,” he explained.

“Don’t leave it for another ten years,” she said, “before letting me know what is happening to you. We didn’t get on very well together as children; but we mustn’t let him think we’re not friends. It would hurt him.”

She spoke quite seriously, as if she were expecting him any moment to open the door and join them. Involuntarily Matthew glanced round the room. Nothing seemed altered. The worn carpet, the faded curtains, Abner’s easy chair, his pipe upon the corner of the mantelpiece beside the vase of spills.

“It is curious,” he said, “finding this vein of fancy, of tenderness in you. I always regarded you as such a practical, unsentimental young person.”

“Perhaps we neither of us knew each other too well, in those days,” she answered.

The small servant entered with the tea.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” he asked, drawing his chair up to the table.

She waited till the small servant had withdrawn.

“Oh, knocking about,” she answered. “Earning my living.”

“It seems to have agreed with you,” he repeated, smiling.

“It’s all right now,” she answered. “It was a bit of a struggle at first.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Life doesn’t temper the wind to the human lamb. But was there any need in your case?” he asked. “I thought–“

“Oh, that all went,” she explained. “Except the house.”

“I’m sorry,” said Matthew. “I didn’t know.”

“Oh, we have been a couple of pigs,” she laughed, replying to his thoughts. “I did sometimes think of writing you. I kept the address you gave me. Not for any assistance; I wanted to fight it out for myself. But I was a bit lonely.”

“Why didn’t you?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment.

“It’s rather soon to make up one’s mind,” she said, “but you seem to me to have changed. Your voice sounds so different. But as a boy– well, you were a bit of a prig, weren’t you? I imagined you writing me good advice and excellent short sermons. And it wasn’t that that I was wanting.”

“I think I understand,” he said. “I’m glad you got through.

“What is your line?” he asked. “Journalism?”

“No,” she answered. “Too self-opinionated.”

She opened a bureau that had always been her own and handed him a programme. “Miss Ann Kavanagh, Contralto,” was announced on it as one of the chief attractions.

“I didn’t know you had a voice,” said Matthew.

“You used to complain of it,” she reminded him.

“Your speaking voice,” he corrected her. “And it wasn’t the quality of that I objected to. It was the quantity.”

She laughed.

“Yes, we kept ourselves pretty busy bringing one another up,” she admitted.

They talked a while longer: of Abner and his kind, quaint ways; of old friends. Ann had lost touch with most of them. She had studied singing in Brussels, and afterwards her master had moved to London and she had followed him. She had only just lately returned to New York.