And again the conversation, enjoyed by neither of them, went on. Finally the girl at the end of the car rose and passed them, as though leaving the car. Avery looked up. "Where are you going, Harry?" "I think some one ought to be with Father." "I'll go in just a minute." She had halted almost in front of them. Avery, hesitating as though he did not know what he ought to do, finally arose; and as Eaton observed that Avery, having introduced himself, appeared now to consider it his duty to present Eaton to Harriet Dorne, Eaton also arose. Avery murmured the names. Harriet Dorne, resting her hand on the back of Avery's chair, joined in the conversation. As she replied easily and interestedly to a comment of Eaton's, Avery suddenly reminded her of her father. After a minute, when Avery--still ungracious and still irritated over something which Eaton could not guess--rather abruptly left them, she took Avery's seat; and Eaton dropped into his chair beside her. Now, this whole proceeding--though within the convention which, forbidding a girl to make a man's acquaintance directly, says nothing against her making it through the medium of another man--had been so unnaturally done that Eaton understood that Harriet Dorne deliberately had arranged to make his acquaintance, and that Avery, angry and objecting, had been overruled. She seemed to Eaton less alertly boyish now than she had looked an hour before when they had boarded the train. Her cheeks were smoothly rounded, her lips rather full, her lashes very long. He could not look up without looking directly at her, for her chair, which had not been moved since Avery left it, was at an angle with his own. A faint, sweet fragrance from her hair and clothing came to him and made him recollect how long it was--five years--since he had talked with, or even been near, such a girl as this; and the sudden tumult of his pulses which her nearness caused warned him to keep watch of what he said until he had learned why she had sought him out. To avoid the appearance of studying her too openly, he turned slightly, so that his gaze went past her to the white turmoil outside the windows. "It's wonderful," she said, "isn't it?" "You mean the storm?" A twinkle of amusement came to Eaton's eyes. "It would be more interesting if it allowed a little more to be seen. At present there is nothing visible but snow." "Is that the only way it affects you?" She turned to him, apparently a trifle disappointed. "I don't exactly understand." "Why, it must affect every man most as it touches his own interests. An artist would think of it as a background for contrasts--a thing to sketch or paint; a writer as something to be written down in words." Eaton understood. She could not more plainly have asked him what he was.