For an open-mouthed moment she stared at him: then, with a comprehension of his change of attitude that was uncanny, controlled herself, controlled her choking need of a good cry, nodded cheerfully, and ran upstairs for her hat, her old straw hat at the bottom of her trunk that she had not meant to wear in Italy. It was going to be all right.... He was going to understand.... He was going to be himself again ... if she only kept quiet and wore her old clothes.... _Oh, all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord!_... She dashed downstairs. It was a cloudless night. The macaroni was delicious. The clang of the trams was like Eastern music. Laura was quiet and sweet. Justin found that he was enjoying himself, and was moved to tell all about his tour around the world, and she was deeply interested and asked extraordinarily intelligent questions, and there was no shadow upon them any more, save the shadow of the great cathedral, black and white and wonderful under the moon. It was late when they came back to an amused, forsaken Mrs. Cloud, and were eloquent for half an hour upon moonlight and macaroni and Milan. And Justin said good-night to Laura and shook hands with her properly instead of grunting off to bed as he generally did. He said she was to sleep well. She said she would. Yet the dawn a few hours later, nosing damply in between venetian blinds, surprised Laura, with wet brushes and a determined mouth, still hard at work before her looking-glass, brushing, brushing, brushing the vanity out of her splendid hair. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIV Man generalizes, woman defines. Woman—she will nurse Tom through small-pox, flirt outrageously with Dick, and sell her soul for Harry and enjoy doing it; but refer to them, Tom, Dick and Harry, with collective benevolence as ‘humanity,’ and she yawns. She is not an altruist. She does not love in the lump. She lives her seventy odd years for the sake of—how many people? There would be a question for her fellow-man! If he whittle down the tally of his dear folk, his allies, his indispensables, just at which notch will his knife blunt, will his hand shake and refuse service? How many loves could he deny to save—how many? But you cannot imagine woman discomposed by such a problem.