When Duane rose, folding his paper with a carelessly pleasant word or two, she looked up in a kind of naive terror--like a child startled at prospect of being left alone. It was curious how those adrift seemed always to glide his way. It had always been so; even stray cats followed him in the streets; unhappy dogs trotted persistently at his heels; many a journey had he made to the Bide-a-wee for some lost creature's sake; many a softly purring cat had he caressed on his way through life--many a woman. As he strolled toward the eastern end of the terrace, Sylvia looked after him; and, suddenly, unable to endure isolation, she rose and followed as instinctively as her lesser sisters-errant. It was the trotting of little footsteps behind him on the gravel that arrested him. A glance at her face was enough; vexed, shocked, yet every sympathy instantly aroused, he resigned himself to whatever might be required of him; and within him a bitter mirth stirred--acrid, unpleasant; but his smile indicated only charmed surprise. "I didn't suppose you'd care for a stroll with me," he said; "it is exceedingly nice of you to give me the chance." "I didn't want to be left alone," she said. "It is rather quiet here since our gay birds have migrated," he said in a matter-of-fact way. "Which direction shall we take?" "I--don't care." "The woods?" "No," with a shudder so involuntary that he noticed it. "Well, then, we'll go cross country----" She looked at her thin, low shoes and then at him. "Certainly," he said, "that won't do, will it?" She shook her head. They were passing the Lodge now where his studio was and where he had intended to pack up his canvases that afternoon. "I'll brew you a cup of tea if you like," he said; "that is, if it's not too unconventional to frighten you." She smiled and nodded. Behind the smile her heavy thoughts throbbed on: How much did this man know? How much did he suspect? And if he suspected, how good he was in every word to her--how kind and gentle and high-minded! And the anguish in her smile caused him to turn hastily to the door and summon old Miller to bring the tea paraphernalia. There was nothing to look at in the studio; all the canvases lay roped in piles ready for the crates; but Sylvia's gaze remained on them as though even the rough backs of the stretchers fascinated her. "My father was an artist. After he married he did not paint. My mother was very wealthy, you know.... It seems a pity." "What? Wealth?" he asked, smiling. "N-no. I mean it seems a little tragic to me that father never continued to paint." Miller's granddaughter came in with the tea. She was a very little girl with yellow hair and big violet eyes. After she had deposited everything, she went over to Duane and held up her mouth to be kissed. He laughed and saluted her. It was a reward for service which she had suggested when he first came to Roya-Neh; and she trotted away in great content.