KAY had not telegraphed. She simply walked up the steps of the city house and rang the bell; the taxi driver had carried up her bag and left it beside her, and so she stood when James opened the door.
He stared at her, holding to the doorknob.
"Don't you know me, James?"
"Yes, Miss, I"
Suddenly Rutherford pushed him aside and threw the door open.
"He's just surprised, Miss Kay," he said. "Come in. Get that bag, James."
She held out her hand, her eyes full of tears. "I've come home, Rutherford," she said pitifully.
He had been there as long as she could remember, tall, immaculate, impassive! "Yes, Miss Kay." "No, Miss Kay." But he was a human being. He was moved; he was glad to see her, and he was frightened for her. She held out her hand.
"Maybe they won't want me, Rutherford."
"It's your home, Miss Kay."
"I know, but"
James had brought in her bag, shabby and worn. She caught a glimpse of herself in the old Italian mirror over the console beside her. She looked shabby and worn too, like the bag, out of place. No wonder James had hesitated.
She went into the drawing room, like any caller. Rutherford had suggested that. Her old rooms were closed, and anyhow her mother was not to have any excitement. He would see the housekeeper. Yes, they had a housekeeper now; a Mrs. Manly, quite a capable person.
She stood by the fireplace, under the Sargent painting of her in her presentation dress. Nothing was changed, save for a hard formality in the arrangement of the room, as
