“I came to you for common sense. You have given it me. And your conclusion is one that I dared not come to myself.” “That you should adopt him? A _reductio ad absurdum!_” “Yes, I feel it. I am not my own mistress now There are difficulties. Oh, Kent, don't let me talk of them! You see, I came to you for help--to no one else.” “I don't quite understand you, Clytie,” said Kent, anxious at her sudden agitation. She recovered herself, womanlike, and forced a laugh. “If I were a rich, lonely old woman, I might be able,” she said, “but, you see, I'm not. No, no, I can't adopt Jack; and we'll have to run him by a committee, whatever happens to him.” “Well, what have you decided?” asked Winifred, coming into the room. “That it will be fairer to Jack to let him work out his own salvation,” said Kent. “Let him work his way through the ranks. If there is anything in him it will come out. You don't think me unkind, do you, Clytie?” Whereat Clytie laughed honestly and Kent received much consolation. They talked a little longer, on indifferent subjects, and then at Winifred's hour of departure they all rose together. Winifred went to the back of the studio and put on her hat; Clytie and Kent moved slowly in the direction of the door. Kent sighed a little. “I only seem to have seen you for five minutes,” he said, “and I have told you nothing, but given you commonplace advice.” “Had you so much to tell me?” she asked, smiling, as his unformulated wish echoed within herself. “There is no reason for us to go away because Winifred does. Would you really like to stay a little and talk to me?” Before Kent spoke Clytie had not the faintest thought of doing this. But in a flash came before her the long evening she was to spend in the great lonely house. Thornton rarely came home for dinner. He even dressed at his club. Often he slept there. On such occasions the first notice Clytie received of his absence was from the inscrutable butler, who would come into the studio in the morning with: “The commissionnaire for master's letters, ma'am.” Occasionally three days passed without their meeting. When they did pass an hour in each other's company sometimes there was calm and sometimes storm. It depended upon his mood. As a general rule he was polite, even bright and entertaining, and life with him under these conditions was just bearable. But now the thought came with some bitterness: What did it matter whether she was at home by seven or eight--or twelve, for that matter? Why should she not have a cheery hour with Kent? His face brightened as she made her smiling offer to stay. “It is too good of you. Of course I should like to have a talk with you. But you--can you----” “Oh, yes,” she interrupted lightly. “I am not due home at any hour. I want to chat with you myself. Winnie dear, we are going to remain a little. Give me the key and I'll hand it to Mrs. Gurkins as I go down. I haven't asked you, but I suppose we can?”