The crisis of the disease came a few days later, with a rapid
decline of fever, and the little girl was pronounced out of danger.
In the rejoicing which ensued the thought of Haskett passed out of
Waythorn's mind and one afternoon, letting himself into the house
with a latchkey, he went straight to his library without noticing a
shabby hat and umbrella in the hall.

In the library he found a small effaced-looking man with a thinnish
gray beard sitting on the edge of a chair. The stranger might have
been a piano-tuner, or one of those mysteriously efficient persons
who are summoned in emergencies to adjust some detail of the
domestic machinery. He blinked at Waythorn through a pair of
gold-rimmed spectacles and said mildly: "Mr. Waythorn, I presume? I
am Lily's father."

Waythorn flushed. "Oh--" he stammered uncomfortably. He broke off,
disliking to appear rude. Inwardly he was trying to adjust the
actual Haskett to the image of him projected by his wife's
reminiscences. Waythorn had been allowed to infer that Alice's first
husband was a brute.

"I am sorry to intrude," said Haskett, with his over-the-counter
politeness.

"Don't mention it," returned Waythorn, collecting himself. "I
suppose the nurse has been told?"

"I presume so. I can wait," said Haskett. He had a resigned way of
speaking, as though life had worn down his natural powers of
resistance.