“You thought she’d got sense enough to know better. It ain’t your fault. I got to go home because I don’t want the family to know about this. But there’s something damn funny in it.--Will you please get it out of Mark’s head that Gurdy’s in love with that girl? Make him feel better.” “I’ll do all I can.” He said in scorn, “She ain’t worth fussin’ with,” and held the door open. Olive shivered, passing the library where there was no sound. She climbed to Margot’s room and found the girl sitting on the edge of the sunny bed, still, smiling. “You must be very tired, darling.” The red lips a little parted. Margot said, “Oh ... no,” in a soft whisper. The faint noise died in the sun like the passage of a moth. Olive stood fixed before the sleek tranquillity of the black hair and the contented face. The restless stirring was gone. She smiled in beautiful contentment. The gold cord which was the girdle of this velvet gown hung brilliant and rich about the straight body. The sunny room made a shell of colour for the figure. The hair had a dazzling margin against the windows. She was untroubled, happy. Olive dragged at her own girdle, biting her lips. She asked, “Where is Mr. Rand, dear?” “He was coming to New York today,” Margot said in the same voice. She lifted an end of the trailing gold, then let it fall. She seemed asleep, lost in a visible dream. But she roused and spoke, “He’s loved me ever so long, Olive. I didn’t know....” and was still again. Olive choked before this happiness, turned and went down the stairs. There was no use in artifice, reasoning. Mark must accept what was done. His good sense would come back, the shock would ease into regret. His convention was outraged, of course. It was dreadful to see him in pain. Olive thrust back her own pain, a vast and weary disappointment. This wasn’t the man for the girl. This was senseless. She entered the library and Mark raised his face from the long stare at the floor, dreading Margot. “Oh,” he said, “it ain’t your fault, Olive. Don’t cry.--I’m bein’ a fool.”