Sylvia's indifferent gaze followed her; then she sipped the tea Duane offered. "Do you remember your father?" he asked pleasantly. "Why, yes. I was fourteen when he died. I remember mother, too. I was seven." Duane said, not looking at her: "It's about the toughest thing that can happen to a girl. It's tough enough on a boy." "It was very hard," she said simply. "Haven't you any relatives except your brother Stuyvesant--" he began, and checked himself, remembering that a youthful aunt of hers had eloped under scandalous circumstances, and at least one uncle was too notorious even for the stomachs of the society that whelped him. She let it pass in silence, as though she had not heard. Later she declined more tea and sat deep in her chair, fingers linked under her chin, lids lowered. After a while, as she did not move or speak, he ventured to busy himself with collecting his brushes, odds and ends of studio equipment. He scraped several palettes, scrubbed up some palette-knives, screwed the tops on a dozen tubes of colour, and fussed and messed about until there seemed to be nothing further to do. So he came back and seated himself, and, looking up, saw the big tears stealing from under her closed lids. He endured it as long as he could. Nothing was said. He leaned nearer and laid his hand over hers; and at the contact she slipped from the chair, slid to her knees, and laid her head on the couch beside him, both hands covering her face, which had turned dead white. Minute after minute passed with no sound, no movement except as he passed his hand over her forehead and hair. He knew what to do when those who were adrift floated into Port Mallett. And sometimes he did more than was strictly required, but never less. Toward sundown she began to feel blindly for her handkerchief. He happened to possess a fresh one and put it into her groping hand. When she was ready to rise she did so, keeping her back toward him and standing for a while busy with her swollen eyes and disordered hair. "Before we go we must have tea together again," he said with perfectly matter-of-fact cordiality. "Y-yes." The voice was very, very small. "And in town, too, Sylvia. I had no idea what a companionable girl you are--how much we have in common. You know silence is the great test of mutual confidence and understanding. You'll let me see you in town, won't you?" "Yes." "That will be jolly. I suppose now that you and I ought to be thinking about dressing for dinner." She assented, moved away a step or two, halted, and, still with her back turned, held out her hand behind her. He took it, bent and kissed it. "See you at dinner," he said cheerfully. And she went out very quietly, his handkerchief pressed against her eyes. He came back into the studio, swung nervously toward the couch, turned and began to pace the floor. "Oh, Lord," he said; "the rottenness of it all--the utter rottenness." * * * * *