“Cousin Marguerite,” simpered the Millstone. “Can this be the little boy I used to know?” she continued, holding out her hand. “You used to wear knickerbockers.” Billy drew the drapery of his striped blanket more closely about him. Shaking hands was quite out of the question. “Dear me, how you’ve changed.” “I’m very glad to see you,” gasped Billy. “I--I wish I had my clothes on. If you’ll just wait with Mr. Beverly a minute--” he turned to Beverly. “You’re not in a hurry, are you?” “Yes, I am,” said the other, frankly. “I have to go to my room and then catch a train.” Billy gave him the look of an offended water-spaniel. “If I could rest somewhere until you come,” suggested Cousin Marguerite. “Couldn’t you take her to your room, if you’re going there anyhow?” pleaded Billy, with a tragic “I’ll-do-something-for-you-some-day” expression. “If you’re going there anyhow,” he repeated. And once more Beverly took up his burden and set out. He went to Beck by back streets; and he walked as fast as he possibly could, because it was hot and dusty--there were no sidewalks and no shade--and he wished to give Cousin Marguerite pain. He didn’t actually want to kill her, he told himself, and marvelled, as he did so, at his own sweetness of disposition. But he hoped to succeed in disabling her in some way, by the time they reached his room, “give her a headache or break something,” so that she couldn’t go to the Tree, or to the Beck spread, or to Memorial Hall. For he felt that otherwise she would go to them all, and he would, for some hideous reason he couldn’t then foresee, have to escort her. So he tore along, with Cousin Marguerite panting hoarsely at his elbow, until her shoes became untied, and he had to kneel in the dust at her feet. He tied them up again--with three hard, vicious knots in each, and hurried on. Every time she placed a restraining hand on his arm, he drew out his watch, showed it to her silently, and then remarked, “my train.” He dragged her past Plympton Street, around by Bow Street, up the little hill back of Quincy, across to Beck, up the stairs two at a time and into his room, where she fell exhausted on his divan. “Now I am going to leave you,” he announced, triumphantly. She motioned to him feebly with her hand, and opened her mouth as if to speak. “You just ought to see my room at home,” she whispered, breathlessly. “It’s a perfect bower of crimson.” But Beverly didn’t wait to hear about it. He ran out, slamming the door behind him, and never stopped nor looked behind until he reached the club, where he called for the longest, coldest drink the steward could make. “I shall never, never, see that woman again,” he said. But he did.