“You’ve shelved me, haven’t you?” he asked as they entered the tiny apartment so fragrant with his flowers. “I didn’t mean to. Come in and we’ll talk about you.” “About you and me.” He came in, readily. “I didn’t understand that was what you wanted.” She did not let him touch her and in the isolation of her room he could not persist. For a while he sat silent and she told him about herself and her lack of feeling. She had fine, clear, experienced phrases to tell of it. Yet she was conscious of making no impression. “I’ve passed the marrying time,” she said. “Why?” “It involves things which have passed me by--that I no longer need.” “You mean--children?” “No--I haven’t a lot of sentimental yearnings about them. But of course I would like to have children. There’s an instinct to do one’s duty by the race, in every woman.” He actually laughed. “You chilled young woman. Well--what then has passed by you?” She did not tell him. Perhaps there were no words, no definite thoughts in her own mind. She must have been full of strange inhibitions. Analysis crowded so close on the heels of feeling with her that she never could have the one without the other. All her study, her watching of men, all her study and analysis of women had made her mind a laboratory with her own emotions for victims of analysis. Gregory had told her that in that sprawlingly written letter, now in the post office, being sent back to her from Mrs. Thorstad. Gregory held her thought for a moment. Then she looked at Walter with fresh appreciation. She liked to be with Walter. He didn’t oppress her. His mind met hers without pushing. She felt protected in his companionship from that rude forcing of emotion which had been so hard on her. He was going now. At the door he held her hand. “I could be very good to you,” he said, quietly. “Let me try.” CHAPTER VII AN UGLY GLIMPSE I Mrs. Thorstad went back to Mohawk a few days later, leaving behind her a trail of increased prestige and carrying with her many assurances of appreciation which she could cogitate at her leisure. Her husband met her at the station, quietly, graciously pleased as he always was at a home-coming. “So Freda stayed for a while,” he said, as they went down the street his arm hanging heavy with her suit-case.