Edith was looking up in his face, and there was something about it that he simply couldn’t stand. The only alternative seemed to be to go somewhere else as soon as he possibly could. Acting on this idea, he made a considerable effort and got his eyes away from her, and spoke quickly and mumblingly, addressing the floor. “You know Hulda, the one you saw just now—she was here——” “Yes, I saw her.” “That’s the one. Well, she’ll take care of everything—tea, you know—and dry—and warm—and—your room—and—yes.” He turned and walked rapidly past Edith and out of the room by one of the rear doors, thence through a back hall and down the basement stairs, making thus an instinctive retreat to his machine shop, the mechanical panacea for all his mental disturbances. At least he had found it so up to now. * * * * * Leaving Edith Findlay entirely in Hulda’s hands was precisely the effective way for getting results, though no thought of it as such entered Haworth’s mind. The maid, a neat, blue-eyed young woman of Scandinavian origin, was greatly pleased at being allowed to take entire charge of Mrs. Findlay, and proceeded to do so with enthusiasm. She brought the poor child (that’s what Edith Findlay seemed to her) hot tea and hot toast and thin sandwiches, and had her in dry stockings and warm slippers before anyone—provided only that he stammered badly—could have said “Jack Robinson.” At once after that she had an open fire burning in the room above and the covers of the furniture off and thorough sweeping and dusting done. Then she returned to Edith, and gave it as her opinion that the thing for her to do was to go to bed and rest herself. So positive was Hulda of the benefits to be derived from “just a few winks, Mrs. Findlay,” that Edith was swept to the room on the wave of her enthusiasm on the subject, and put snugly to bed.