lifted and Mrs. Wyeth's big eyes fastened upon hers through the
impartial mirror. But their expression was not that of the placid matron
observed in a passage of conjugal tenderness. Rather, it was one of
acute dismay--almost fear. Poor Mrs. Weyth, who had just said,
"Doubtless I shall not be visible when you go!"

Even as she caught this look, Nancy started down the remaining steps,
her cheeks hot from her own wretched awkwardness. She wanted to
hurry--to run; she might still escape without having reason to suspect
that the obscured person was other than he should be in the opinion of
an exacting world. Then, as her hand was at the door, while the silken
rustling of that hurried disentanglement was in her ears, the voice of
Wyeth sounded remotely from the rear of the house. It seemed to come
from far back in the library, removed from them by the length of the
double drawing-rooms--a comfortable, smooth, high-pitched voice--lazy,
drawling--

"Oh, _Linford!_"

_Linford!_ The name seemed to sink into the stillness of the great
house, leaving no ripple behind. Before an answer to the call could
come, she had opened the great door and pulled it sharply to behind her.

Outside, she lingered a moment as if in serenely absent contemplation of
the street, with the air of one who sought to recall her next
engagement. Then, gathering up her skirts, she went leisurely down the
steps and passed unhurriedly from the view of those dismayed eyes that
she felt upon her from the Wyeth window.

On the avenue she turned north and was presently alone in a shaded aisle