The sudden rage of jealousy which had surged over him down there in the dining-room had opened his eyes. He realized now that he had been falling in love with her, deeper and deeper every day, ever since his arrival at Waynewood. He had been blinding himself with all sorts of excuses, but to-day they were no longer convincing. He had made a beastly mess of things. If he had only had the common sense to look the situation fairly in the face a month ago! It would have been so simple then to have beat a retreat. Now he might retreat as far as he could go without undoing the damage. Well, thank Heaven, there was no harm done to anyone save himself! Then he recalled the startled look in Holly’s brown eyes and wondered what she had read in his face. Could she have guessed? Nonsense; he was too old to parade his emotions like a school-boy. Doubtless he had looked annoyed, disgusted, and Holly had seen it and probably resented it. That was all. Had he unwittingly done anything to cause her to suspect? He strove to remember. No, the secret was safe. He sighed with relief. Thank Heaven for that! If she ever guessed his feelings what a fool she would think him, what a middle-aged, sentimental ass! And how she would laugh! But no, perhaps she wouldn’t do just that; she was too kind-hearted; but she would be amused. Winthrop’s cheeks burned at the thought. Granted all this, what was to be done? Run away? To what end? Running away wouldn’t undo what was done. Now that he realized what had happened he could keep guard on himself. None suspected, none need ever suspect, Holly least of all. It would be foolish to punish himself unnecessarily for what, after all, was no offense. No; he would stay at Waynewood; he would see Holly each day, and he would cure himself of what, after all, was――could be――only a sentimental attachment evolved from propinquity and idleness. Holly was going to marry Julian; and even were she not――――. Winthrop glanced toward the photograph frame on the bureau――there were circumstances which forbade him entering the field. Holly was not for him. Surely if one thoroughly realized that a thing was unobtainable he must cease to desire it in time. That was common sense. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and arose. “That’s it, Robert, my boy,” he muttered. “Common sense. If you’ll just stick to that you’ll come out all right. There’s nothing like a little, hard, plain common sense to knock the wind out of sentiment. Common sense, my boy, common sense!”