"You don't look it," commented John Ryder frankly. Belinda crossed the room, threw up the shades, and turned to look at the amazing visitor, who stood the scrutiny with imperturbable calm. "I am Miss Carewe. You wish to see me?" The tone was frigid, but its temperature had no apparent effect. "Yes. I'm John Ryder," the man announced tranquilly; then, seeing that she didn't look enlightened, he added, "I'm Miss Ryder's brother, you know." Belinda thawed. "Why, I didn't know----" she began, then stopped awkwardly. "Didn't know the girls had a brother. No; I fancy they haven't talked about me much. You see, I'm the 'black sheep.'" The statement was brusque, but the smile was disarming. "I've been thoroughly bleached, Miss Carewe. Don't turn me out." She had no intention of turning him out. His voice had an honest note, his eyes were very kind, and she lacked supreme confidence in her employers' sense of values; so she sat down upon an imposing chair swathed in brown Holland and looked at the "Black Sheep." "What have they been doing to you?" he asked. "I'm homesick." She essayed gay self-derision, but her lips trembled, and to John Ryder's surprise he found his blood boiling, despite the icy temperature of the room. "Did they leave you here all alone?" "Nobody left me. I stayed." Belinda was conscious that the conversation had taken an amazing leap into intimacy, and clutched at her dignity, but she felt bewildered. There was something overpowering and masterful about this big, boyish man. "Nobody else here?" "Servants." "House shut up like this?" "Naturally." "No heat?" "I can't see that the matter concerns you, Mr. Ryder--unless----" "Oh, no. I'm not thinking of staying." Her attempt at rebuff had not the smallest effect. "No gas, either, I suppose?" She didn't answer. He said something under his breath that appeared to afford him relief. "No friends in town, evidently?" Belinda rose with fine stateliness. "If there's nothing I can do for you, Mr. Ryder----" "Sit down." She sat down involuntarily, and then felt egregiously foolish because she had done it; but John Ryder was leaning forward with his honest eyes holding hers and was talking earnestly. "Please don't be angry. I've been out in the Australian bush so long that I've forgotten my parlour tricks. Men say what they think, and ask for what they want, and do pretty well as they please--or can--out there. I've hardly seen a woman. I suppose they'd cut down the independence if they entered into the game. But, see here, Miss Carewe, you're homesick. I'm homesick, too--and I'm worse off than you, for I'm homesick at home. It's rather dreadful being homesick at home." There was a note, half bitter, half regretful, in the voice and a look in the eyes that was an appeal to generosity. Belinda's conventionality crumpled up and her heart warmed toward the fellow-waif.