Jack’s upper body was only fairly developed, yet by comparison with his nether limbs his arms looked excessively long. His head, with its luxurious growth of dark brown, slightly curling hair, was large as a gnome’s. At the moment his features were twisted into an expression of resentment. Only his eyes were beautiful, wide-set and Irish-gray in color, with an outsweep of long, almost black lashes. A certain embarrassment for him, which quickly followed the shock of noting his deformity, caused Dolores to lift her eyes toward a square object wrapped about with a bath towel, which was suspended from the ceiling near the window. “A bird?” she asked irrelevantly. “A canary.” Master Jack now stood directly before her. “He sings so much around noon-time, I bag him.” “And don’t you like him to sing?” “Of course not. He sounds too happy. Who are you, anyway?” Dolores’ eyes filled with the wistfulness that always overflowed her heart at thought of her own lonely childhood--her super-sad little-girlhood. “I am some one your mother has engaged to keep you company,” she told him. “I do hope we can make a go of it, Jack. I certainly should appreciate your friendship.” “You’re not----” Suspicion stiffened his face. “Say, if you’re another governess----” “I’d rather be,” she interrupted, “sort of a pal.” “But you couldn’t play boy’s games. What’s your name?” “Dolores Trent. Dolores means grief.” “’Lores--grief?” His interest was caught, as had been Vincent Seff’s, by that “sad little name” of hers. He hooked one hand to his hip like some shrunken old man and studied her from beneath the graceful sweep of his lashes. New objection occurred to him. “My mother insists that I keep cheerful all the time. She mightn’t let you stay if she knew your name meant grief. She hung Dick in here. That’s one reason I don’t like him.” “How you must love your mother, Jack--she’s so beautiful!” “That’s no reason to love anybody,” came his startling statement. “I’ve been living with my mother going on nine years now and she’s getting kind of stale. I don’t mind your name--being kept cheerful all the time is what I hate the most. I won’t stand it, I tell you!” Dolores quieted his returning excitement with a shrug of compliance. “Let’s just be miserable together, then.” “Until that gets tiresome.” Even with the shrewd proviso, one corner of the boy’s over-large mouth twitched, as if from humor. “Mind, I get my own way,” he warned, “except when John’s home.” “John?” she asked. “My father. He’s the only person I respect, unless it is Clarke Shayle. I don’t know, though. I think I like Clarke more than I respect him. And then, of course, he hurts me a lot. Clarke’s my osteopath. He has won five medals for swimming. John hasn’t any medals, but he doesn’t need them. You sort of know that he could have all he wanted if he wanted them.” “And you let your father have his own way with you?”