Martin Brophy stared at old Dick and then cast a look up at the office clock, whose hands, like Dick's in the moment of mental stress, were upraised on the stroke of twelve. "Flagg dead?" inquired Brophy, unable otherwise to account for Dick's absence from the big house at the dinner hour. "No! Toothache! Can't eat to-day. He let me off to go to a burying." "Whose?" Old Dick shook his head and passed on into the dining room, peering hard into the face of the waitress as he plodded toward her. "Burying!" he muttered. "May as well make sure it's dead--and put it away." Lida met him as she was meeting her other problems up there--boldly. She leaned over him when he was seated and recited the daily bill of fare. He did not take his eyes off her face, now close to his. "Lida Kennard," he whispered, hoarsely, panting, pulling the hard collar away from his throat with trembling fingers, "why ain't ye home with your poor old grandfather, where ye belong? Lida Kennard, why ain't ye home?" Her eyes did not waver. Brophy had followed, to be better informed as to the funeral, and stood in the doorway. "Who's the nut?" inquired Patsy Jones, acridly, turning her gaze to the landlord. "He's calling me names." Her hard tones made the old man wince. "He's all right--safe--only a little crazier than usual," returned Brophy. "If you want to eat, Dick, go ahead and eat--but don't bother Miss Jones. I don't allow anybody to bother her. And where's that funeral, I ask you again?" "Here!" said the old man, rapping his knuckles on his breast. "It's buried. I guess I am crazy. Oh yes, I'll admit it. I see things that ain't so." "Well, go ahead and eat," commanded Brophy. "I don't want to eat--I can't, now." He pushed back his chair and rose. "What names did he call you?" demanded the landlord, truculently. "I won't have your feelings hurt, you know!" "Oh, only made some funny noises," retorted Miss Jones, flippantly. "Let him go. I don't mind." Rickety Dick plodded out as he had plodded in; he was shaking his head, dismissing all his hopes and his dreams. Miss Jones went to another guest. "The world is full of 'em," she said. "We have lamb, beef, and pork." Brophy retired, entertaining no further curiosity. The surge of homesickness that swept through the girl choked her--its spray blurred her eyes as she gazed after old Dick, pitying his bent shoulders under the sun-faded coat. But even in her sorrow, because she had been obliged to deny his wistful plaint so heartlessly, she was conscious of relief. She had been afraid of his recognition of her; after this she would be more free to come and go.