"It's about John," he heard her say very quickly. "He--you know he cares a great deal about you, and that you influence him greatly. You did more than any one else ever has for him." "I'm sure," interrupted K. Stuyvesant, "I'm glad. I don't mean that," he blurted out; "I mean----" "I understand," said Cecilia; "I telephoned you to ask you if you wouldn't come to the house sometimes because of him? I--I'm not home very much. The--the little incident of the boat is quite forgotten----" K. Stuyvesant coughed. "I understand you," said Cecilia. "I hope you do me?" "Yes," answered K. Stuyvesant miserably. "You will help him?" she questioned further. "I will," he answered. "I told Miss Marjory I'd do---- "Yes," broke in Cecilia, unable to bear more; "she told me what you said. I'll be more grateful than you can ever know, too." K. Stuyvesant swallowed convulsively. "Good-bye," she said in a small voice. "Good-bye," he answered gruffly. He hung up the receiver and stared across the room. His teeth were set with cruel tightness on his lower lip.... He remembered how her little hand had crept into his beneath a blue and green checked steamer blanket. He almost wished he could forget it.... And that distance at which she'd kept him had not been what he'd thought, her proving of his sudden love, but only her inclination. Lord, how he'd dreamed, and still dreamed! ... He'd do what he could for John. He believed much was possible. And how even the sound of her voice left him! Shaking, and aching with his want. First hot, then cold.... He stared, unseeingly, across his office. He recalled his first evening at the country house when he'd stood by the white wall with a Greek relief, worshipping a little Irish maid. Then Marjory had come. He wished she hadn't. He almost hated her, and found no reason why he should, except for her telling him something which haunted his long nights.... "Cecilia, Cecilia!" ran through his head,--and heart.... For her, he'd do what he could for John. He reached for the telephone and called a number he knew too well. After an interval, and a request, John answered. At first his tone was languid, then it leaped into colour from pleasure, and K. Stuyvesant hid his eyes.... John, genuine, echoed the dearest Cecilia. His voice, even in its grating boy-quality, held a hint of hers. "Then we'll go riding?" K. Stuyvesant asked. "I'd be jolly glad to!" answered John. "I've wanted to see you, but I thought I'd better not bother you." "We'll take in the aeroplane show," said K. Stuyvesant, "if you like." John liked very much. He hung up the receiver, looking like a boy. His thickened eyelids were lifted, his eyes wide open.