"I know--I know," he said, and there was a shade of anguish in his voice. "Forgive me. There shall be absolutely nothing said. Not even a gesture. I promise you that. It is as though we had never known each other." "Surely we can play a part. It isn't as if we were children," she said, and smiled. He looked at her--indeed, his eyes had never left her face. Never had she seemed so wonderful to him. "I'm in bad," he told her. "Got to give the old place up. But what's that to you?" There was a sound behind them. "Here comes Uncle Henry!" A wheel chair came out of the doorway. In it sat an old man of about sixty. But he did not look much like an invalid. His cheeks were rosy, and his abundant white hair was brushed back from a forehead of fine moulding. His eyes were penetrating--as young as Gilbert's, almost. Ten years before he had become paralyzed in his legs, and now he wheeled himself about, not at all uncomfortable. "Uncle Henry, this is Mrs. Pell. Come out and meet her," his nephew said. Lucia felt that she should go to the invalid; but he beat her to it. Quick as a billiard-ball he had reached her side, turning the wheels of his chair with great rapidity. "Pleased to meet you," he said, and put out a white hand. "How long you goin' to stay?" "What a question," Gilbert laughed. "As long as she and her husband wish, of course." "Well, by cricketty ginger!" Henry Smith exclaimed. "Hope you'll give 'em enough to eat!" And before anyone could say another word, he had turned and scooted back into the house. "Don't mind Uncle Henry," Gilbert said to Lucia. "He's got a heart of gold, but he can be cranky and eccentric sometimes. Maybe he's got one of his moods to-day. I never know. Tomorrow he'll be all right--perhaps. I hope so, anyhow.... But come inside. You must be tired after your trip. Your rooms are upstairs." He led her into the prettiest low-beamed room she thought she had ever seen. Indian pottery was all about, low settles, a fireplace that conjured up a cozy picture of lonely winter evenings, and an entrancing staircase without a balustrade that led to a dark blue door. On the walls were some beautiful Navajo blankets, and a tiny alcove off to the right seemed to lead to another part of the long low house. The windows were brightly curtained, and all the furniture had a look of endurance and permanence--a manly room, she thought. Yet how ironical this appearance of firmness and stability was, in view of the reason of their visit! He had said he must give the place up. What a wrench it would be for him! Women seldom like to see a bachelor--particularly a young bachelor--living in such solid comfort. As Lucia went up the stairs, she saw little touches she could give to the place. But she had to confess that the improvements she could suggest were not at all important. If two men could get along so well without feminine society, perhaps one of them didn't miss her much, after all! CHAPTER III