"I am glad you like it." Hilda smiled her thanks, but her eyes still expressed that distance and reserve that showed no consciousness of the past, no intention of admitting it as a link to the present. She did not seem exactly shy, but her whole manner was passive--negative. Katherine probably thought that Mr. Odd had by this time realized the futility of an attempt to draw out the unresponsive artist, for she seated herself between Odd and the sofa, thus protecting Hilda from Mrs. Archinard's severities and Odd from the ineffectual necessity for talking to Hilda. Odd thought that were Katherine and Mrs. Archinard not there he might have "come at" Hilda, but the sense of ease Katherine brought with her was undeniable. She was charmingly mistress of herself, made him talk, appealed prettily to her mother, who even gave more than one melancholy laugh, and, with a tactful give and take, yet kept the reins of conversation well within her own hands. Odd found her a nice girl, but the undercurrent of his thought dwelt on Hilda, and at every gayety of Katherine's, his eyes sought her sister's face; Hilda's eyes were always fixed on Katherine, and she smiled a certain dumbly admiring smile. As he sat near her, he could see that the little black dress was very shabby. He could not have associated Hilda with real untidiness, and indeed the dress with its white linen cuffs and collar, its inevitable grace of severely simple outline, was neat to an almost painful degree. Hilda's artistic proclivities perhaps showed themselves in shiny seams and careful darns and patches. When he rose to go he took her hands again; he hoped that his persistency did not make him appear rather foolish. "I am sorry you won't come to-morrow. May I hope for another day?" "I can't come to-morrow"--there was a touch of self-defence in Hilda's smile--"but perhaps some other day. I should love to," she finished rather abruptly. "But you will be different--I will be different. We will both be changed," repeated itself in Odd's mind as he walked down the Rue Pierre Charron. Poor little child-voice! how sadly it sounded. How true had been the prophecy. CHAPTER III Peter Odd, at this epoch of his life, felt that he was resting on his oars and drifting. He had spent his life in strenuous rowing. He had seen much, thought much, done much; yet he had made for no goal, and had won no race; how should he, when he had not yet made up his mind that racing for anything was worth while?