More and more after this Vi showed fear of being left alone with me; any moment a slip of the tongue might betray our passion. Frequently during the evening hours Mr. Carpenter would join us. He would steal into the room while Vi was reading and sit down by my bedside. I began to have great sympathy for the man. Vi’s actions to him were those of a daughter, and he, when he addressed her, called her “My child.” Both their attitudes to one another were wrong--it hurt me to watch them; they made such efforts to create the impression that everything was well. Sitting beside me while she read, he would fasten his eyes on her. If she smiled across at him in turning a page, his heavy face would flood with a quite disproportionate joy. He was too fine a man for the part he was playing; he had strength of character and mastery over men. Along his own lines he had a wonderful mind. It was always scheming for efficiency, concentration, and bigger projects. If money was the reward of his energy, the desire for power impelled him. But I could quite understand how a woman might yearn for more human interests and more subtle methods of conveying affection than the mere piling of luxury on luxury. He could articulate his deepest emotions only in acts. One evening when Vi had excused herself on the ground that she had a headache, I took the opportunity to thank him for his kindness. He became as confused as if I had discovered him in a lie. “My dear boy, you mustn’t speak to me like that; you don’t owe me anything. It is I who owe you everything.” I was staggered by his disclaimer. Under existing circumstances it seemed a superlative extravagance of language. Then he explained, “If it hadn’t been for you, we shouldn’t have Vi.” It was the first reference that any of us had made to what had happened at Ransby. After that Randall Carpenter and I grew to be friends. We didn’t do much talking about it, but we each realized how the other felt.... I was almost sufficiently recovered to travel. I broached the subject of my leaving several times--the first time at breakfast. Randall glanced up sharply from the letter he was opening--his expression clouded--instead of looking at me he stared at Vi. “Certainly not. Certainly not,” he blustered. “Couldn’t hear of it.” Dorrie added her piping protest. Vi alone was silent. Every time I approached the subject it was the same. The truth was our relations were so delicately balanced that the slightest disturbance would precipitate a crisis--and the crisis we dreaded. We each one knew that the time for frank speaking could scarcely be avoided, but we were eager to postpone it. So we procrastinated, lengthening out our respite. One afternoon I returned with Randall from a drive to find Vi waiting for us at the gate. Her face was drawn with anxiety. “What’s happened?” asked Randall, and the sharpness of suspense was in his voice.