The youngsters’ ill-humor deplored the postponed hunting. The elders hopelessly cited instances of October rains that had cleared with the first sunset. Mrs. Budd apologized for the weather as she would have for an overdone entrée. Her guests responded in scattering chorus. It was “jolly”—“a lark”—“just the thing for a quiet day!”—a round of deprecation that failed to leave them otherwise than chilly and damp. It was not an atmosphere that clung to them, but rather one they exhaled—one that existed in the face of the most flourishing of fires, that clouded the most amiable game of billiards, that sharpened the most friendly exchange of opinion. The out-of-doors that had offered such excellent opportunities for escaping themselves, or one another, was denied them. They were forced to face conditions that two days had created—conditions of which all understood too much to be unconcerned; of which no one knew the whole. Even Florence, who perhaps understood most, was bewildered completely on one point. But that was not Longacre’s place in the web. _His_ figure to her was clear in the foreground. His bewilderment in her sudden change; his endeavor to bridge this distance she had so suddenly forced between them, to win back what had been given and then so tacitly, so inexplicably withdrawn, made her suffer. That first day was little less than a battle between their two wills. At what effort she maintained toward him the kindness of her smile, the quiescence of her feeling, the resolution not to avoid him, she did not realize herself. It impressed her that he sought her out more than usual. Formerly they had avoided marked association in a crowd. Now, was he avoiding some one else? Irritable, moody, he seemed most at ease with her, yet, otherwise than his wont, had little to say; and his eyes were more often away from her, following another’s coming and going. That tall Julia carried the shadow of the storm in her face. She looked cloudy. She was pale. Then, feeling a certain pair of eyes upon her, out flashed the color like a suddenly blossomed flower. All at once she seemed to mean something more than youth and beauty. She was less intent upon herself, more sensitive to who came and went; and sometimes her glance was backward—across her shoulder, as if aware of one behind her. Whose those fancied footsteps were, Florence had no doubt. But this was the knot she could not unravel: just what did Longacre mean to Julia? How much could she be to him?