She was just turning away from the hall closet with the sweater--he, hat and stick in hand, was fighting back the memory of how Senator Watt had marched stiffly to that same closet--when Madame Watt came down the stairs, scowling intently, still breathing hard. She saw them; came toward them; stood, pursing her lips, finally forcing a sort of smile. 'Oh, howdadoo!' she remarked, toward Henry. Her black eyes focused pointedly on him. And while he was mumbling a greeting, she broke in on him with this:--'I didn't know you were here. Did you just come?' Henry's eyes lowered. Then, as utter silence fell, the colour surging to his face, he raised them. They met her black, alarmed stare. He felt that he ought to lie about this, lie like a good one. But he didn't know how. Slowly, all confusion, he shook his head. During a long moment they held that gaze, the vigorous, strangely interesting woman of wealth and of what must have been a violent past, and the gifted, sensitive youth of twenty. When she turned away, they had a secret. 'We thought of taking a little walk,' said Cicely. Madame moved briskly away into the back parlour, merely throwing back over her shoulder, in a rather explosive voice: 'Have a good time!' The remark evidently struck Cicely as somewhat out of character. She even turned, a little distrait, and looked after, her aunt. Then, as they were passing out the door, Madame's voice boomed after them. She was hurrying back through the hall. 'By the way,' she said, with a frowning, determined manner, 'we are having a little theatre party Saturday night. A few of Cicely's friends. Dinner here at six. Then we go in on the seven-twenty. I know Cicely'll be glad to have you. Informal--don't bother to dress.' 'Oh, yes!' cried Cicely, looking at her aunt. 'I--Im sure I'd be delighted,' said Henry heavily. Then they went out, and strolled in rather oppressive quiet toward the lake. There was a summer extravaganza going, at the Auditorium. That must be the theatre. They hadn't meant to ask him, of course. Not at this late hour. It hurt, with a pain that, a day or so back, would have filled Henry's thoughts. But Cicely's smile, as she stood by the table, nibbling a chocolate, the poise of her pretty head--the picture stood out clearly against a background so ugly, so unthinkably vulgar, that it was like a deafening noise in his brain. 4 He glanced sidewise at Cicely. They were walking down Douglass Street. Just ahead lay the still, faintly shimmering lake, stretching out to the end of the night and beyond. Already the whispering sound reached their ears of ripples lapping at the shelving beach. And away out, beyond the dim horizon, a soft brightness gave promise of the approaching moonrise. He stole another glance at Cicely. He could just distinguish her delicate profile.