'Fitted into it!' exclaimed David, as he turned toward her at the end of the room. 'My--Did the house ever fit into him? It is the business of a house to suit the people that live in it,' he flung over his shoulder as he wheeled away again. Rachel was silent, puzzled at this surprising change of manner in David, and not knowing how much of his emotion was merely the impatience of grief. 'Is there a corner of the house where it is appropriate for him to lie now, except that little cubby-hole of his upstairs?' demanded David, continuing, but as one who knows that an answer is impossible. He suddenly abandoned his walk and came over and sat down opposite her, in front of the empty fireplace. He sat silent a moment, his gray figure drooping in a big chair. Rachel, looking carefully at him for the first time, noted with a kind of surprise the mark of brokenness and relaxation upon him, of submission to tremendous grief. It had not occurred to her that John could be mourned in that way. After a moment he said quietly, 'This house has never been a home for John.' 'I was always hoping,' said Rachel, as if this subject were one which they had discussed before and agreed upon, 'that he would feel more at home here in time.' 'What would have been necessary to bring that about?' asked David quietly. 'Well,' said Rachel, with reluctance in criticism even greater than usual, 'he would have had to change in many ways.' 'In what ways?' persisted David. Rachel hesitated again. The thing, when baldly said, seemed so much harsher than when it was merely held in thought. 'John's taste was different from that of the people who made the house,' she said. 'Yes, I know. These pictures, and the old books in the library, and so on. Is that what you mean?' 'Well, the insides of the books, and other pictures which we don't have--and so on,' she finished indefinitely. 'Yes. You thought John was crude and rather coarse in feeling.' 'Oh, no--not that indeed!' 'You wouldn't call it just that, of course. But the difference between you was the same, whether it put you up high or him down low. Isn't that so? You were sorry for yourself because John was not on your level?' 'Yes,' admitted Rachel, reluctantly voicing the word. 'Were you ever sorry enough for John because you were not on his level?--There are different kinds of lonesomeness,' he added after a pause. 'I never saw a worse case than John's.' Rachel sat upright, looking at him in a sort of amazement, as much at himself as at the idea. She had never dreamed that behind his apparently sympathetic observation of her lay any condemnation of her attitude. He met her look with one as direct, and asked, in a way which made the question a sort of arraignment, 'Did it ever occur to you what a tragedy John's life was?'