Clover,” he said then. “Of course, as you never saw me before, you want to know that first of all.” 

 “I’d choose to know,” she said. And then the uncompromising neutrality of her expression deepened so plainly that he hastened to add: 

 “I’m H. Wyncoop Clover.” 

 “Oh!” she said. And then smiled, too; having heard the name before. 

 “Why don’t you ask me my business?” went on H. Wyncoop Clover. “I must have come for some reason, you know.” 

 “I didn’t know it,” said Mrs. Rosscott—“I don’t know anything about you yet.” 

 They both smiled—and then H. Wyncoop resumed his colorless sobriety at once. 

 “It’s about Jack,” he said—“these terrible new developments—” he stopped short, seeing his vis-à-vis turn deathly white, “it’s nothing to be frightened over,” he said reassuringly. 

 Mrs. Rosscott was furious with herself for having paled. She became instantly haughty. 

 “I was alarmed for my brother,” she said. “I always think of them both as together.” 

 “Oh, in that case, I can reassure you instantly,” said the caller. “Burnett is doing finely.” 

 Mrs. Rosscott was conscious of being suddenly and skillfully countercharged. She blushed with vexation, bit her lip in perturbation, and cast upon the trying individual opposite a look of most appealing interrogation. 

 “You see,” said Clover pleasantly, “I was coming to town, so I came in handy for the purpose of telling you.” 

 She gave him a glance that prayed him to be decent and go on with his errand. 

 “Burnett is about recovered,” he said. 

 She clasped her hands hard. 

 “I wouldn’t be a man for anything!” she exclaimed with sudden fervor, “they are so awfully mean. Why don’t you go on and tell me what you’ve come about?” 

 He raised his eyebrows. 

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