luxury on those ill-gotten gains, you can afford for a while to be sentimental here!”  Her smile had for him, with the words, the particular mild irony with which he found half her talk suffused; an irony without bitterness and that came, exactly, from her having so much imagination—not, like the cheap sarcasms with which one heard most people, about the world of “society,” bid for the reputation of cleverness, from nobody’s really having any.  It was agreeable to him at this very moment to be sure that when he had answered, after a brief demur, “Well, yes; so, precisely, you may put it!” her imagination would still do him justice.  He explained that even if never a dollar were to come to him from the other house he would nevertheless cherish this one; and he dwelt, further, while they lingered and wandered, on the fact of the stupefaction he was already exciting, the positive mystification he felt himself create.

He spoke of the value of all he read into it, into the mere sight of the walls, mere shapes of the rooms, mere sound of the floors, mere feel, in his hand, of the old silver-plated knobs of the several mahogany doors, which suggested the pressure of the palms of the dead the seventy years of the past in fine that these things represented, the annals of nearly three generations, counting his grandfather’s, the one that had ended there, and the impalpable ashes of his long-extinct youth, afloat in the very air like microscopic motes.  She listened to everything; she was a woman who answered intimately but who utterly didn’t chatter.  She scattered abroad therefore no cloud of words; she could assent, she could agree, above all she could encourage, without doing that.  Only at the last she went a little further than he had done himself.  “And then how do you know?  You may still, after all, want to live here.”  It rather indeed pulled him up, for it wasn’t what he had been thinking, at least in her sense of the words, “You mean I may decide to stay on for the sake of it?”

“Well, with such a home—!”  But, quite beautifully, she had too much tact to dot so monstrous an i, and it was precisely an illustration of the way she didn’t rattle.  How could any one—of any wit—insist on any one else’s “wanting” to live in New York?

“Oh,” he said, “I might have lived here (since I had my opportunity early in life); I might have put in here all these years.  Then everything would have been different enough—and, I dare say, ‘funny’ enough.  But that’s another matter.  And then the beauty of it—I mean of my perversity, of my refusal to agree to a ‘deal’—is just in the total absence of a reason.  Don’t you see that if I had a reason about the matter at all it would have to be the other way, and would then be inevitably a reason of dollars?  There are no reasons here but of dollars.  Let us therefore have none whatever—not the ghost of one.”

They were back in the hall then for departure, but from where they stood the vista was large, through an open door, into the great square main saloon, with its almost antique felicity of brave spaces between windows.  Her eyes came back from that reach and met his own a moment.  “Are you very sure the ‘ghost’ of one doesn’t, much rather, serve—?”

He had a positive sense of turning pale.  But it was as near as they were then to come.  For he made answer, he believed, between a glare and a grin: “Oh ghosts—of course the place must swarm with them!  I should be ashamed of it if it didn’t.  Poor Mrs. Muldoon’s right, and it’s why I haven’t asked her to do more than look in.”

Miss Staverton’s gaze again lost itself, and things she didn’t utter, it was clear, came and went in her mind.  She might even for the minute, off there in the fine room, have imagined some element dimly gathering.  Simplified like the death-mask of a handsome face, it perhaps produced for her just then an effect akin to the stir of an expression in the “set” commemorative plaster.  Yet whatever her impression may have been she produced instead a vague platitude.  “Well, if it were only furnished and lived in—!”

She appeared to imply that in case of its being still furnished he might have been a little less opposed to the idea of a return.  But she passed straight into the vestibule, as if to leave her words behind her, and the next moment he had opened the house-door and was standing with her on the steps.  He closed the door and, while he re-pocketed his key, looking up and down, they took in the comparatively harsh actuality of the Avenue, which reminded him of the assault of the outer light of the Desert on the traveller emerging from an Egyptian tomb.  But he risked before they stepped into the street his gathered answer to her speech.  “For me it is lived in.  For me it is furnished.”  At which it was easy for her to sigh “Ah yes!” all vaguely and discreetly; since his parents and his favourite sister, to say nothing of other kin, in numbers, had run their course and met their end there.  That represented, within the walls, ineffaceable life.

It was a few days after this that, during an hour passed with her again, he had expressed his impatience of the too flattering curiosity—among the people he met—about his appreciation of New York.  He had arrived at none at all that was socially producible, and as for that matter of his “thinking” (thinking the better or the worse of anything there) he was wholly taken up with one subject of thought.  It was mere vain egoism, and it was moreover, if she liked, a morbid obsession.  He found all things come back to the question of what he personally might have been, how he might have led his life and “turned out,” if he had not so, at the outset, given it up.  And confessing for the first time to the intensity within him of this absurd speculation—which but proved also, no doubt, the habit of too selfishly thinking—he affirmed the impotence there of any other source of interest, any other native appeal.  “What would it have made of me, what would it have made of me?  I keep for ever wondering, all idiotically; as if I could possibly know!  I see what it has made of dozens of others, those I meet, and it positively aches within me, to the point of exasperation, that it would have made something of me as well.  Only I can’t make out what, and the worry of it, the small rage of curiosity never to be satisfied, brings back what I remember to have felt, once or twice, after judging best, for reasons, to burn some important letter unopened.  I’ve been sorry, I’ve hated it—I’ve never known what was in the letter.  You may, of course, say it’s a trifle—!”

“I don’t say it’s a trifle,” Miss Staverton gravely interrupted.

She was seated by her fire, and before her, on his feet and restless, he turned to and fro between this intensity of his idea and a fitful and unseeing inspection, through his single eye-glass, of the dear little old objects on her chimney-piece.  Her interruption made him for an instant look at her harder.  “I shouldn’t care if you did!” he laughed, however; “and it’s only a figure, at any rate, for the way I now feel.  Not to have followed my perverse young course—and almost in the teeth of my father’s curse, as I may say; not to have kept it up, so, ‘over there,’ from that day to this, without a doubt or a pang; not, above all, to have liked it, to have loved it, so much, loved it, no doubt, with such an abysmal conceit of my own preference; some variation from that, I say, must have produced some different effect for my life and for my ‘form.’  I should have stuck here—if it had been possible; and I was too young, at twenty-three, to judge, pour deux sous, whether it were possible.  If I had waited I might have seen it was, and then I might have been, by staying here, something nearer to one of these types who