She took his hand, he looked into her eyes. They were not quite so dimpled. She tossed her head and withdrew her hand and left him. David watched her giving the same hand to Doctor Westerling, watched her embrace her sister with a burst of fondness, watched her recoil from the clumsy hug of Miss Laurence. He tried to believe that what she had given to him was secret and different. She was gone. He felt at home in this strange house. He felt intimate deeply with this little girl, whom he had watched for a moment out of their wide lives in a public car. He accepted her in this house as he accepted physical laws of life. Miss Daindrie had ears where they should be and they heard what they should hear when he spoke words to her. So this warm home had the little girl whom he loved, had his comfort. He did not fathom how now his love for Hope was a quieter thing. He accepted--didn’t we?--miracle. So he thought. He had looked on the girl of the car with less intimacy after all. Intimacy was the denier of quiet? Words were the denier of knowing? Was he comfortable, intimate, what was he here in this relevant night? She led out of the room where he sat embraced with Miss Daindrie. Did she lead forth--him? Whither? Who was she after all? Doctor Westerling had an uncomfortable smile or an abstract frown when he was quiet. Mrs. Daindrie remarked this. She found she could better leave David to himself. He did not mind. Wherever the talk was, and for whom, he listened pleasantly. She must pay attention to Doctor Westerling the more since she realized that her daughter did not seem to care if he was at ease or no. A strange unwonted character in Helen. There must be a reason for her willed indifference, at bottom flattering to the Doctor--he was there invited. Anything from Helen not properly pleasant was flattering. Mrs. Daindrie had respect for those who had the respect of her daughter. She plied him with questions. She could not hold his interest. The words each of them called forth died out like a too short fuse. Mr. Daindrie looked about the table. He saw that Westerling was being bored by the questions of his wife. He took umbrage neither for her nor against him. He was a quiet man, accepting the world’s clashes. “I suppose you are only waiting, Doctor,” he said, “to take up your practice as a specialist?” “I never intend to practice,” Westerling replied. There was an emphatic note in his voice that brought silence over the table. Helen looked at him, proudly. She knew the integrity of his mind. She knew her father’s would meet it and be pleased. Always she was saying to herself and to certain of her friends: “I have great respect for Doctor Westerling’s mind.” “Oh?” questioned Mr. Daindrie.