David stood motionless. He was wondering if Tom told all the truth. Tom took the offensive: “I’ll be blessed, Davie, if you’re not thinking evil things about me now. I don’t give enough care to my Sister. I don’t bring her enough into my life, into our life.” He sat back in his chair and thrust his sharp question into the indecisive vagueness of David’s “Not so?” “Why--I didn’t say that.... But why do we go out together so seldom now? We three. Why is Cornelia here so little?” “Why don’t you invite her?” “I always thought that was for you to do.” “The truth is, David, you see Cornelia plenty.” Tom had achieved the tune he wanted. He was out of the talk. By stress of David he would manage to remain out. “I have nothing against your friendship with Sis. I am happy about it. I had something to do with making it, you may remember. It is good for her--and she means a lot. But you must broaden out, man; at your time of life you must not crib yourself, even with a Cornelia. You have no idea of the gamut of human relationships: of their variance and wonder.... Why do you think I wished you to come with me, this afternoon? You see how frank I am. Cornelia you can have any time and always. But Laura Duffield will get weary of inviting you to meet her friends, if you continue to show such nimbleness in avoiding her. That is precisely what you need. Yes--a lot more, just now, than you need Sister.” Tom was unanswerable. He did not press the matter further. He read the news. But David later trudging the deserted side-street, between silent walls, could not convince himself there was no answer. “Cornelia,” he said, “come over to our place and spend Wednesday evening.” “I have an engagement, Davie.” “Then come Thursday. Or Friday.” Cornelia stopped. “Let’s sit on that bench,” she said. “Quick!--before some one else----” Her first remark had been low, serious. A touch of brightness in her last words that made David look at her. As they sat, it was gone. Carriages flowed before them. Motionless coachmen, immobile ladies, cramped frilled children passed like wooden figures in a carrousel. Only the horses lived. And yet not all of them, since their docked tails and their cruelly reined necks had an air of artifice. “Listen, David. I want to speak to you. I should love to accept your invitation. But ...” she stopped. David felt a strange commotion. Something within him was full of panic, wanted to get away. At most a fraternal fault was going to be found with Tom. Why then did he have the sense that it was he who was going to be accused--and more still, justly? These gusts of emotion were ridiculous. Cornelia had as yet said nothing. Yet, at that moment, if a man had come up to him and asked: “Is Thomas Rennard your friend?” David would have stammered. Cornelia was speaking.