George shrugged his shoulders and edged away, measuring his chances of seeing her alone. They were slender, for as usual she was a magnet, yet luck played for him and against her after luncheon, bringing them at the same moment from different directions to the empty hall. She wanted to hurry by, as if he were a disturbing shadow, but he barred her way. "I suppose I should say I'm sorry I hurt you last night. I'll say it, if you wish, but I'm not particularly sorry." She showed him her hands then, spread them before him. They trembled, but that was all. They recorded no marks of his precipitancy. "I shouldn't expect you to be sorry. After that certainly you will never speak to me again." "Will you tell me now who it is?" he asked. Her temper blazed. "I ought always to know what to expect from you." She ran back to the door through which she had entered. "Oh, Dolly!" Dalrymple met her on the threshold. "Take me for a walk," she said. "It won't hurt you." Dalrymple indicated George. "Morton coming?" She shook her head and ran lightly upstairs. "No, I'm not going," George said. "She's right. The fresh air will do you good." "Thanks," Dalrymple answered, petulantly. "I'm quite capable of prescribing for myself." He went out in search of his hat and coat. George watched him, letting all his dislike escape. Continually they hovered on the edge of a break, but Dalrymple wouldn't quite permit it now. George was confident that the seed sown last night would flower. He was glad when Mundy telephoned before dinner about some difficulties of transportation that might have been solved the next day. George sprang at the excuse, however, refused Blodgett's offer of a car to town, and drove to the station. Dalrymple and Sylvia hadn't returned. XII In town Goodhue, too, read his discontent. "You look tired out, George," he said the next morning. "Evidently Blodgett's party wasn't much benefit." "I'm learning to dislike parties," George answered. "You were wise to duck it. What was the matter? Didn't fancy the Blodgett brand of hospitality?" "Promised my mother to spend the week-end at Westbury. I'd have enjoyed it. I'm really growing fond of Blodgett." There it was again, and you couldn't question Goodhue. Always he said just what he meant, or he kept his opinions to himself. Every word of praise for Blodgett reached George as a direct charge of disloyalty, of bad judgment, of narrow-mindedness. His irritation increased. He was grateful for the mass of work in which he was involved. That chained his imagination by day, but at night he wearily reviewed the past five years, seeking his points of weakness, some fatal omission.