So Oliver was left alone with her, he didn't know why. He noticed, however, that when she came to talk to him, though it was still with lightness, she was at no particular effort any longer to make the lightness anything but a method of dealing with wounds.

“Mr. Billett does not seem quite to appreciate exactly how much your timely pugilistics did for him,” she observed. “Or exactly how they might have affected you.”

Oliver set his jaw, rather. He was hardly going to discuss what Ted might or might not owe him with Mrs. Severance. Hardly.

“No, I suppose you wouldn't,” she said uncannily. Then she spoke again and this time if the tone was airy it was with the airiness of a defeated swordsman apologizing for having been killed by such a clumsy stroke of fence.

“But I have some—comprehension—of just what you did. And besides—I seem to have a queer foible for telling the truth just now. Odd, isn't it, when I've been lying so successfully all evening?”

“Very successfully,” said Oliver, and, to his astonishment, saw her wince.

“Yes—well. Well, I don't know quite why I'm keeping you here—though there was something I wanted to say to you, I believe—in a most serious and grandmotherly manner too—the way of a grown woman as Sargent would put it—poor Sargent—” She laughed.

“Oh yes, I remember now. It was only that I don't think you need—worry—about Mr. Billett any more. You see?”

“I think so,” said Oliver with some incomprehension.

“Seeing him done up that way in towels,” she mused with a flicker of mirth. “And the way he looked at me when I was telling about things afterwards—oh it wouldn't do, you know, Oliver, it wouldn't do! Your friend is—essentially—a—highly—Puritan—young man,” she added slowly. Oliver started—that was one of the things so few people knew about Ted.

“Oh yes—wholly. Even in the way he'd go to the devil. He'd do it with such a religious conviction—take it so hard. It would eat him up. Completely. And it isn't—amusing—to go to the devil with anybody whose diabolism would be so efficiently pious—a reversed kind of Presbyterianism. We wouldn't do that, you know—you or myself,” and for an instant as she spoke Oliver felt what he characterized as a most damnable feeling of kinship with her.

It was true. Oliver had been struck with that during his army experiences—things somehow had never seemed to stick to him the way they had seemed to with Ted.

“Which is one reason that I feel so sure Mr. Billett will get on very well with Sargent's daughter—if his Puritan principles don't make him feel too much as if he were linking her for life to a lost soul,” went on Mrs. Severance.

“Wha-a-at!”

“My dear Oliver, whatever my failings may be, I have some penetration. Mr. Billett was garrulous at times, I fear—young men are so apt to be with older women. Oh no—he was beautifully sure that he was not betraying himself—the dear ostrich. And that letter—really that was clumsy of both of you, Oliver—when I could see the handwriting—all modern and well-bred girls seem to write the same curly kind of hand somehow—and then Sargent's address in embossed blue letters on the back. And I couldn't have suspected him of carrying on an intrigue with Mrs. Piper!” and Oliver was forced to smile at her tinkle of laughter. Then she grew a little earnest.

“I don't suppose it was—Mr. Billett—I wanted so—exactly,” she mused. “It was more—Mr. Billett's age—Mr. Billett's undeniable freshness—if you see. I'm not quite a Kipling vampire—no—a vampire that wants to crunch the bones—or do vampires crunch bones? I believe they only act like babies with bottles—nasty of them, isn't it?—But one gets to a definite age—and Sargent's a dear but he has all the defects of a husband—and things begin slipping away, slipping away—”

She made a motion of sifting between her hands, letting fall light grains of a precious substance that the hands were no longer young enough to keep.

“And life goes so queerly and keeps moving on like a tramp in front of a policeman till you've started being gray and taking off your corset every time you're alone because you like being comfortable better than having a waist-line—and you've never had anything to settle you,” her face twitched, “not children—nor even the security of marriage—nothing but work that only interests part of you—and this—”

She spread her hands at the apartment.

“Well—what a lot of nonsense I'm talking—and keeping Mr. Billett out in the car when he's sure he has pneumonia already—how unkind of me. You must think me a very immoral old woman, don't you, Oliver?”

“I think you're very sporting,” said Oliver, truthfully.

“Not very. If I really wanted Mr. Billett, you see.” Her eyes sparkled. “I'm afraid you wouldn't think me sporting at all—in that case. But then I don't think you'd have been able to—save—anybody I really wanted as you did Mr. Billett.” She spoke slowly. “Even with that very capable looking right hand. But in case you're still worried—”

“I'm not, really.”

She paid no attention.

“In case you're still worried—what I told Mr. Billett was true. In the first place, Sargent would never believe me, anyway. In the second place it would mean breaking with Sargent—and do you know I'm rather fond of Sargent in my own way?—and a thing like that—well, you saw how he was tonight—it would mean more things like revolvers and I hate revolvers. And hurting Sargent—and ruining Mr. Billett who is a genuinely nice boy and can't help being a Puritan, though I never shall forget the way he looked in those towels. Still, I'm rather fond of him too—oh, I'm perfectly unashamed about it, it's quite in an aunty way now and he'll never see me again if he can help it.

“And making Sargent's daughter—who must be charming from what I hear of her—but charming or not, she happens to be a woman and I have a feeling that, being a woman, life will hurt her quite sufficiently without my adding my wholly vicarious share. Oh, I'm perfectly harmless now, Oliver,” she made a pretty gesture with her hands. “You and Sargent and the fire-escape between you have drawn my fangs.”

“I can't exactly—thank you,” said Oliver, “but I do repeat—you're sporting.”

“Never repeat a compliment to a woman over twenty and seldom then.” She looked at him reflectively. “The same woman, that is. There is such a great deal I could teach you though, really,” she said. “You're much more teachable than Mr. Billett, for instance,” and Oliver felt a little shudder of terror go through him for a moment at the way she said it. But she laughed again.

“I shouldn't worry. And besides, you're blighted, aren't you?—and they're unteachable till they recover. Well.

“Oh, yes, there was something else I meant to be serious about. Sargent said something about our—disappearing, and all that. Well, Sargent has always been enamored of puttering around a garden somewhere in an alias and old trousers with me to make him lemonade when he gets overheated—and so far I've humored him—but I've really never thought very much of the idea. That would be—for me—a particularly stupid way of going to seed.” She was wholly in earnest now. “And I haven't the slightest intention of going to seed with Sargent or anybody else for a very long time yet. If it ever comes definitely to that I shall break with Sargent; you can depend on my selfishness—arrogance—anything you like for that. Quite depend.

“Tonight,” she hesitated. “Tonight has really made a good many things—clear to me. Things that were moving around in my mind, though I didn't know quite what to call them. For one thing, it has made me—realize,” her eyes darkened, “that my time for really being—a woman—not in the copybook sense—is diminishing. Getting short. Oh, you and Mr. Billett will have to reconcile your knowledge of Sargent's and my situation with whatever moral ideas you may happen to have on fathers-in-law and friends' fathers for some time yet—I'm sure I don't know how you're going to do it, especially Mr. Billett, and I can't honestly say that I particularly care. But that will not be—permanent, I imagine. You understand?” She put her hand on the door-knob to imply that the audience was over.

“I shall miss Louise, though,” she said, frankly.

“Louise will miss you.” Oliver saw no need for being politic now. He added hesitatingly, “After all—”

“Oh, no. No,” she said lightly but very firmly. “I couldn't very well, now, could I?” and Oliver, in spite of all the broadmindedness upon which he prided himself, was left rather dumb.

“Oh, it won't be—difficult,” she added. “We can keep up—in the office—yes?”

“Yes,” said Oliver hastily. He might be signing a compact with all the powers of darkness, but even so.

“For the rest, I am—used to things like that,” she added, and once again her face grew suddenly bright with pain. Then she recovered herself.

“Well—our next merry meeting and so forth,” she said airily. “Because when it happens, if it does, I may be so stodgily respectable you'll be very glad to ask me to dinner, you know. Or I may be—completely disreputable—one never knows. But in any case,” and she gave her hand.

“Mr. Billett must be freezing to death in that car,” she murmured. “Good-by, Oliver, and my best if wholly unrespectable good wishes.” “Thanks and—good luck to you.”

She turned on him swiftly.

“Oh, no. All the happiness in the world and no luck—-that's better, isn't it? Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

And then Oliver was out in the hall, pressing the button that would summon a sleepy, disgruntled elevator-boy to take him down to Ted and the car. He decided as he waited that few conversations he had ever had made him feel quite so inescapably, irritatingly young; that he saw to the last inch of exactitude just why Mr. Piper completely and Ted very nearly had fallen in love with Mrs. Severance; that she was one of the most remarkable individuals he had ever met; and that he hoped from the bottom of his heart he never, never saw her again.