Uncle Alfred moved quietly about the house, stood uneasily at a window, or drifted into the garden, swinging his eyeglass, his expression troubled, his whole being puzzled by the capacity of his relatives to be dramatic, without apparent realization of their gift. Here was a sister suddenly dead, a niece wandering hand in hand with the man from whom another niece had fled, while the discarded lover acted the part of family friend; and that family preserved its admirable trick of asking no question, of accepting each member's right to its own actions. Only Miriam, now and then catching his eye in the friendly understanding they had established, seemed to make a criticism without a comment, and to promise him that, foolish as she was, he need not fear results on Helen's colossal scale. It was Rupert who could best appreciate Helen's attitude, and when he was not thinking of the things he might have done for a woman he could help no longer, he was watching his sister and her impassivity, her unfailing gentleness to George, the perfection of her manner to Zebedee. She satisfied his sense of what was fitting, and gave him the kind of pleasure to be derived from the simple and candid handiwork of a master. "If tragedy produces this kind of thing," he said to John with a gesture, "the suffering is much more than worth while--from the spectator's point of view." "I don't know what you are talking about," John said. "The way she manages those two." "Who? And which?" "Good Lord, man! Haven't you seen it? Helen and the two suitors." John grunted. "Oh--that!" He had not yet learnt to speak of the affair with any patience. * * * * * Mildred Caniper had left the house and all it held to Helen. "I suppose you'll try to let it," Rupert said. "I don't like to think of that, though. Helen, I wish she hadn't died. Do you think we were more unpleasant than we need have been?" "Not much. She was unpleasanter than we were, really, but then--" "Heavens, yes. What a life!" Her lips framed the words in echo, but she did not utter them, though she alone had the right. "So perhaps I am not sorry she is dead," Rupert said. Helen's lips tilted in a smile. "I don't think you need ever be sorry that any one is dead," she said, and before she could hear what her words told him, he spoke quickly. "Well, what about this house?" "I shan't let it." "Will you live here?" "No. I'm going to George, but no one else shall have it. I don't think the Pinderwells would be happy. Is there any furniture you want? You can have anything except what's in the dining-room. That's for Zebedee. His own is hideous." To Zebedee she said, "You'll take it, won't you?" "I've always taken everything you've given me," he said, and with the words they seemed to look at each other fairly for the last time.