When Utterly started from the hotel to call upon the Professor of English, the three members of the Scott family were still at the dinner table. Mrs. Scott occupied the chief seat, a small, birdlike creature with quick motions and a sharp tongue which helped to shape staccato notes as varied as those of a catbird. She condemned now in rapid succession the decorations of the chapel, President Lister's address, and Eleanor Bent's color, which she believed was not altogether natural.

Little Cora, who sat to her mother's left, was, to most persons acquainted with the family, a negligible quantity. She had gone through college because college was at hand, and she would now assume, it was to be expected, like the other girls in Waltonville, an attitude of waiting, which was to her mother not without its precise object.

"Richard Lister never looked at any one else," she often insisted to her husband.

"Richard is very young," Dr. Scott would remind her in his nervous way. He stammered when he addressed his wife, who seldom allowed him to finish his long, beautiful sentences. Sometimes she helped him with a word, sometimes she finished the sentence herself, radically altering his meaning, and proceeding precipitately to some lighter theme.

He sat opposite his wife and awaited impatiently the moment of release. About twenty-five years after he was married, he had made for himself a refuge in a room adjoining his classroom. Here a single wide window opened upon a part of the prospect which Mrs. Bent and her daughter enjoyed daily; here was a fireplace and here ample space for shelves. He transported himself thither with desk, pamphlets, old books, and all other movable possessions except his clothes, to spend that part of his time which was not devoted to eating or sleeping or teaching. There Mrs. Scott did not seek him out, having everything in her own hands, and needing no advice upon any subject domestic or foreign.

He had an intense desire for a little fame, both because he did not wish to be wholly forgotten, and because he longed for association with those who were working in the same field. He wrote short articles for the "Era" and longer articles for the "Continent," and occasionally he received letters in comment from scholars. He read widely, and his mind, quickened by some modern instance, offered at once a parallel from literature or history. An eruption of Ætna reminded him of magnificent and almost forgotten lines of Cowper; a summer evening recalled stanza upon stanza; in spring he thought in verse.

Occasionally he received for his compositions a small honorarium. The first he had passed with fatal gallantry to Mrs. Scott. When she spent it for an atrocious "Head of an Arab" in Arabian colors, he determined to use the next for books. But she expected a continuation of these perquisites and was quick to suspect their arrival. Instead of adding new volumes of Pater or old editions of the poetry of Robert Herrick to his library, he added new pieces of statuary and other objects of doubtful value to his wife's collection. When the precious slips of paper passed from his hand, he was tempted to wonder why he had married. But loyalty was a religion with him and he would be loyal even in thought.

The vacant place opposite Cora belonged to her brother Walter, or, as he preferred to sign himself, W. Simpson Scott, a product peculiarly his mother's, moulded by her hand, holding her convictions. Earnestly advised in his boyhood that without a large income one could do and be nothing in the world, he had accepted a position with an uncle, a manufacturer in New York, and had risen until he was now his uncle's chief assistant at a salary well known in Waltonville. He proved himself to be equal to all those commercial emergencies in which a little sharp dealing goes farther than a good deal of hard work. He came home about twice a year, bringing with him the most recent of slang, the most fashionable of wardrobes, the latest musical-comedy songs, and the most contemptuous opinion of Waltonville.

To the Scott household the closing of the college for the summer brought little change. The time that Dr. Scott had spent in the classroom he would spend now in his study; the time that Cora had spent with her books she would spend embroidering. Mrs. Scott's life would know at first no change, but in August she would take Cora to Atlantic City to meet Walter, and Dr. Scott would spend a month in heavenly quiet and with an entirely negligible indigestion.

When Evan Utterly reached the porch steps, Mrs. Scott stood still at the foot of the stairway which she was about to ascend and looked and listened, regretting the chance which had taken her husband to the porch before her. Somehow Utterly in his beautiful white clothes had escaped her attention at the morning exercises, or she would have had up to this time an uncomfortable period of speculation.

Vaguely provoked because she was not summoned at once, she stood still, her eyes roving from the parlor, with its gilt chairs and its pale upholstery, to the sitting-room, with its table spread with Cora's presents. There could be no better time to entertain a stranger!

She heard Utterly comment upon the Attic beauty of the campus; then his voice sank. He was still talking about Waltonville's charm, but she suspected a confidential communication. She determined to wait until she heard more. There was only one situation in life in which she was truly patient and in such a situation she now waited and listened. When a single clear statement reached her alert ears, she moved nearer to the door. The stranger had said that he was a member of the staff of "Willard's Magazine"! She had a passion for literature, she believed, and here was doubtless a very celebrated literary man at her door! She laid her hand lightly upon the latch, thereby producing a little sound which the stranger could not hear, but which Dr. Scott could not mistake. Surely he would rise at once and invite her to join them!

But her husband gave no sign of summoning her. Patience became impatience. She could hear in his voice the tone which he assumed when he was bored or when he was talking with persons whom he did not like. She could still hear only unintelligible fragments of the conversation. She clicked the latch again.

Dr. Scott did not like the stranger, either for himself or his clothes or his speech. It was a period when Anglomania affected the rising generation and this youth used English pronunciations as he might have used a monocle, with evident and painful effort. In what he had to say Dr. Scott was not the least interested. He had begun to open the mail which lay on the chair beside him and he wished desperately that the young man would state his errand and go.

When Utterly asked finally for Basil Everman, Dr. Scott was not able to help him in his search. He said that he had lived in Waltonville for only about fifteen years and that he did not remember that he had ever heard of Basil. Richard Everman had been president of the college and he had had one child, a daughter who was now Mrs. Lister. From her the family history could doubtless be learned. It might be that Basil was her uncle. Dr. Scott stirred uneasily, as he was wont to do when he was anxious to be left in peace.

Mrs. Scott had moved to the side of the doorway from which she could see the stranger. He seemed to her each moment more distinguished in appearance. She was certain that he hailed from that distant Boston which she adored without having seen. When she saw him reach for his hat and stick, which he had laid on the porch floor beside him, she lifted the latch and walked out. She was just in the nick of time. Neither the conductor nor the brakeman nor even the hotel-keeper was as offensive to Utterly as this man who professed to teach English literature. He did not exhibit his magazines or explain why he sought Basil Everman.

For once, Dr. Scott did as he was expected and desired to do. Rising, he presented the stranger to Mrs. Scott with a cordiality which only hope of his own escape could have inspired. Now, at least, he need not talk. Perhaps he could even leave the stranger entirely in her hands. This was, he explained with a Chesterfieldian bow, Mr. Utterly, who was making inquiry about some one named Basil Everman.

Mrs. Scott seated herself with a finality of manner which made it necessary for Utterly to be seated also.

"Oh, yes?" said she eagerly and inquiringly.

"Do you know anything of him?" asked Utterly.

"Why, yes. He was a brother of Mrs. Lister. He died—"

"Died!" repeated Utterly.

"Oh, yes, before we came to Waltonville. I believe he lived away from home. He died of some contagious disease and he wasn't buried here, I know that. I think he was a bit wild." Mrs. Scott looked at the stranger with some deep meaning.

Dr. Scott flushed during this rush of words. It was strange that she should know so much about Basil Everman and he so little, but whether he had never heard his name, or whether he had known and had forgotten were questions of too little importance to solve or to explain.

"What do you mean by 'wild'?" asked Utterly with blunt curiosity.

"Oh, he—he didn't do things as other people did them," answered Mrs. Scott vaguely.

"You never saw him?"

"No."

"Nor heard anything of him but that?"

"No." Mrs. Scott made the acknowledgment with reluctance.

When Utterly said that her not knowing more was very singular, her curiosity became almost a physical distress.

"Was there anything remarkable about him?" she asked.

"Rather!" Utterly now took hat and stick firmly in his hand. "Where do the Listers live?"

Mrs. Scott ignored the question. It annoyed her to think of this brilliant stranger in the hands of Mrs. Lister even though his business was with her.

"If you are interested in hearing about Basil Everman"—the name slipped from her lips as though it had long waited just behind them—"you might like to meet some Waltonville people here to-morrow evening. They could tell you a great deal."

Utterly accepted the invitation with alacrity. If he were still in Waltonville, he should like nothing better.

"There is another citizen of Waltonville whom I should like to meet," said he.

Mrs. Scott's mind traveled rapidly down the list of professors. She almost purred in her satisfaction.

"I shall be glad to ask any one. That person is—"

When Utterly answered "Miss Eleanor Bent," Mrs. Scott looked astonished and disapproving. Utterly read her countenance with amusement. It was evident that Miss Bent did not move in Mrs. Scott's circle. The worse for Mrs. Scott! He explained that he was to call on Miss Bent that evening by appointment. She was, thank fortune! here and alive and easy to find. Then, with a polite good-afternoon, he descended the steps and started toward the Listers' white house.

Dr. Scott and his wife spoke simultaneously.

"What on earth does he want?" demanded Mrs. Scott of Dr. Scott and of the universe.

"The man is a stranger! Why did you invite him here like that?"

"We are told to entertain strangers," replied Mrs. Scott flippantly. "What does he want here? What does he want with Eleanor Bent? What is this about Mrs. Lister's brother?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask. It's none of my affair."

"Perhaps she has applied somewhere for a position. What—"

Dr. Scott gathered up his papers and books. He dropped the "Fortnightly Review" and almost groaned to see that magazine and cover had parted company. Then he bestowed upon his wife one of the glances of incredulous astonishment which he had cast upon her during all but a very brief period of their married life, and fled. That a party involved the making of ice-cream and that he would be required to furnish the motive power for its manufacture in the middle of to-morrow's hot afternoon was not the least disturbing of the reflections which this unfortunate incident introduced into his mind.