She tasted what was offered, seeing nothing, hearing nothing; later, in her room, a servant came saying that Mr. Gray begged a moment's interview on a matter of importance connected with her brother. It was the only thing that could have moved her to see him. She had denied herself to him all that winter; she had been obliged to make it plainer after a letter from him--a nice, stupid, boyish letter, asking her to marry him. And her reply terminated the attempts of Bunbury Gray to secure a hearing from the girl who had apparently taken so sudden and so strange an aversion to a man who had been nice to her all her life. They had, at one time, been virtually engaged, after Geraldine Seagrave had cut him loose, and before Dysart took the trouble to seriously notice her. But Bunny was youthful and frisky and his tastes were catholic, and it did not seem to make much difference that Dysart again stepped casually between them in his graceful way. Yet, curiously enough, each preserved for the other a shy sort of admiration which, until last autumn, had made their somewhat infrequent encounters exceedingly interesting. Autumn had altered their attitudes; Bunny became serious in proportion to the distance she put between them--which is of course the usual incentive to masculine importunity. They had had one or two little scenes at Roya-Neh; the girl even hesitated, unquietly curious, perplexed at her own attitude, yet diffidently interested in the man. A straw was all that her balance required to incline it; Dysart dropped it, casually. And there were no more pretty scenes between Bunny Gray and his lady-love that autumn, only sulks from the youth, and, after many attempts to secure a hearing, a very direct and honest letter that winter, which had resulted in his dismissal. * * * * * She came down to the drawing-room, looking the spectre of herself, but her stillness and self-possession kept Bunny at his distance, staring, restless, amazed--all of which very evident symptoms and emotions she ignored. "I have your message," she said. "Has anything happened to my brother?" He began: "You mustn't be alarmed, but he is not very well----" "I am alarmed. Where is he?" "In the Knickerbocker Hospital." "Seriously ill?" "No. He is in a private ward----" "The--alcoholic?" she asked quietly. "Yes," he said, flushing with the shame that had not burnt her white face. "May I go to him?" she asked. "No!" he exclaimed, horrified. She seated herself, hands folded loosely on her lap: "What am I to do, Bunny?" "Nothing.... I only came to tell you so that you'd know. To-morrow if you care to telephone Bailey----" "Yes; thank you." She closed her eyes; opened them with an effort. "If you'll let me, Sylvia, I'll keep you informed," he ventured. "Would you? I'd be very glad."