"Not yet. We're waiting for it, sir. We're afraid her mind will give way. At least, Molly is. I don't think so. She's a queer young lady--as queer as she looks--though at first you'd never think it. She's always looking different. I never seen so many persons in one." "Can't Molly _make_ her cry?--by talking about him?" "She's tried, sir. It wasn't no use. Why, Miss Dorothy talks about him just as if he was still here." Pat wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I've been in many a house of mourning, but never through such a strain as this. Somehow I feel as if I'd never before been round where there was anyone that'd lost somebody they _really_ cared about. Weeping and moaning don't amount to much beside what she's doing." Norman stayed round for an hour or more, then rushed away distracted. He drank like a madman--drank himself into a daze, and so got a few hours of a kind of sleep. He was looking haggard and wild now, and everyone avoided him, though in fact there was not the least danger of an outburst of temper. His sister--Josephine--the office--several clients telephoned for him. To all he sent the same refusal--that he was too ill to see anyone. Not until the third day after the funeral did Dorothy telephone for him. He took an ice-cold bath, got himself together as well as he could, and reached the house in Jersey City about half past three in the afternoon. She came gliding into the room like a ghost, trailing a black negligee that made the whiteness of her skin startling. Her eyelids were heavy and dark, but unreddened. She gazed at him with calm, clear melancholy, and his heart throbbed and ached for her. She seated herself, clasped her hands loosely in her lap, and said: "I've sent for you so that I could settle things up." "Your father's affairs? Can't I do it better?" "He had arranged everything. There are only the papers--his notes--and he wrote out the addresses of the men they were to be sent to. No, I mean settle things up with you." "You mustn't bother about that," said he. "Besides, there's nothing to settle." "I shan't pretend I'm going to try to pay you back," she went on, as if he had not spoken. "I never could do it. But you will get part at least by selling this furniture and the things at the laboratory." "Dorothy--please," he implored. "Don't you understand you're to stay on here, just the same? What sort of man do you think I am? I did this for you, and you know it." "But I did it for my father," replied she, "and he's gone." She was resting her melancholy gaze upon him. "I couldn't take anything from you. You didn't think I was that kind?" He was silent.