But none of these things were Dorothy's business. Instead, by the time she had finished her questioning of Amory, there was no thought at all in her breast, save only the pitiful desire to help. She saw before her an old young woman, more drained and disillusioned and with less to look forward to at thirty-odd than her aunt had at seventy. Her very presence in Dorothy's house that night was a confession of it. It was the last house she would willingly have gone to, and yet there she was, begging Dorothy to tell her what had happened to her. And there was nothing for Dorothy to say in reply.... She knew that Stan, in the dining-room, was waiting to come to bed, but he must wait; Dorothy had the fire to mend, and Amory's cold hands to chafe, and to get her something hot to drink, and a dozen other things to do that had never had a beginning either, yet there they were, mere helpful habit and nothing more. Presently she set a cup of hot soup to Amory's lips. "Drink this," she said, "and when you're rested my husband will take you home." But that did not happen either. Amory spoke very tiredly. "I should like--I don't want to trouble you--anywhere would do--but I don't want to go home to-night----" Dorothy made a swift and doubting mental calculation. Where could she put her?---- "I'm simply done up," muttered Amory closing her eyes. "I'm afraid we could only give you a shakedown in the dining-room----" "Yes--that would do----" Dorothy went out to give Stan his orders. Stan swore. "Rather cool, one of _that_ crew coming here, to-night of all nights!" But Dorothy was peremptory. "It isn't cool at all. You don't know anything about it. You'll find blankets in the chest in your dressing-room, and mind you don't wake Noel. Then get some cushions--I'll air a pillowcase--and then you must go up there and tell them where she is--they'll be anxious----" "Shall I bring those twins of hers back with me while I'm about it?" Stan asked satirically. "May as well put the lot up." When he heard Dorothy's reply he thought that his wife really had gone mad. "I've arranged that," she said. "We shall be putting the twins up for a time at Ludlow by and by while she and her husband go away somewhere for a change. It's the least we can do. Don't stand gaping there, Stan----" "Hm! May I ask what's up?" "You may if you like, but I shan't tell you." "Hm!... Well--it's a dog's life--but I suppose it's no good my saying anything----" "Not a bit." So Amory was put to bed, most unhygienically, in Dorothy's dining-room; but in the middle of the night she woke, quite unable to remember where she was. There was a narrow opening between the drawn curtains; through it a glimmer of light shone on the Venetian blinds from the street-lamp outside; and without any other light Amory got out of her improvised couch. She felt her way along the wall to a switch, and then suddenly flooded the room with light.