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visited it for years. One did not easily forget boyish haunts. Even in the gathering dusk he knew unerringly the route across the lawn and among the trees and through the postern door in the wall about the park that brought him out onto the road a short distance beyond the far end of the village—Mrs. Winters’s end. He did not wish to tempt fate by striding through the village on his way to her cottage.
    It was almost dark by the time he stepped through the postern door onto the road. The curtains were drawn across the windows at the front of the cottage, he could see. There was light behind one of them. She was at home, then. He must hope that she was there alone. He must have some sort of excuse to present if she was not.
    He opened the gate and closed it carefully behind him. A glance along the street showed it to be deserted. He felt unaccountably nervous now that the time had come. He had never done such a thing in the country before. Certainly never at Stratton. And he had never stayed long enough anywhere else even to consider the desirability of doing so. It was the sort of thing one associated with the anonymity of a large place, like London.
    Claude would not be pleased if he got wind of it.
    Eden and Nat would be amused and would never let him hear the end of it.
    He must make sure that no one got wind of it.
    He knocked on the door.
    He thought he was going to have to knock again, even though he could hear a dog barking with some enthusiasm inside, but he heard the key turning in the lock just as he was raising his arm, and the door opened a short way. She looked at him in some surprise. She was wearing a lace-trimmed cap, which made her look charmingly pretty instead of matronly. She wore the same high-necked, long-sleeved wool dress she had worn earlier in the day. He wondered if she realized that it emphasized her slimness and clung enticingly to her curves.
    â€œMy lord!” she said.
    He could hardly hear her above the barking of the dog. He wondered for the first time how it was she could tell the difference between him and Claude. Most people could not, at least on early acquaintance.
    â€œMrs. Winters?” He removed his hat. “Good evening. May I step inside?”
    She looked beyond his shoulder as if she expected to see someone else with him. Some seconds passed before she opened the door wider and stepped to one side so that he could move past her. A small brown-and-white terrier stepped into the breach and announced its intention of guarding its territory.
    â€œI do not bite,” he told the dog in languid tones. “I hope you will return the favor, sir.”
    â€œToby,” she said, “do be quiet.”
    But her words were not needed. The dog had turned over onto its back and was thumping its tail on the floor and waving its pawsin the air. He tickled it with the toe of his boot and the animal turned right side up and trotted away, apparently satisfied.
    He was in a narrow passageway. It seemed like a miniature house. He almost felt as if he should duck his head to avoid hitting it on the ceiling.
    She closed the door and stood facing it for longer than seemed strictly necessary. Then she turned to him and looked into his face. They were a very clear hazel, her eyes, with long brown lashes.
    â€œThere is no fire in the parlor,” she said. “I was not expecting callers. I was in the kitchen.”
    There was an enticing smell of baking coming from the kitchen, and sure enough he could see as he entered it a tray of small cakes resting on a cloth on the table. It was a cozy room. It looked lived in. The rocker to one side of the fire had a brightly embroidered cushion on the seat. There was a lit lamp on the table beside it and a book opened facedown. The dog was lying on the chair.
    He turned to look at Mrs. Winters. She was pale. Even her lips seemed to have lost color.
    â€œWill you have a seat, my lord?” she asked suddenly, her hand indicating