"I’m very much obliged to you." Her voice came as if from an immense distance. Then she nodded to Cayley, who rose. "Nothin’ more I could do, is they? Wouldn’t you like to try a sittin’, Miss?" Vixley asked with urbanity. "Thank you, no." Clytie walked out slowly, without another look at him, like a somnambulist. Vixley hastened to escort her to the front door, and opened it. Cayley gave him a look. It was returned. Vixley bowed. Clytie went out. "Are you going over to North Beach?" Cayley inquired. "I’ll walk up to the car with you." "I’ll go alone, I think." "Oh, very well—but—" "Good afternoon. You’ll have to excuse me, Blanchard." "All right. Good day." She strode off, leaving him there. She walked all the way home, and walked fast, her head held high, looking straight ahead of her. She took the steep hills with hardly a slackening of her speed, breasting the upward inclines energetically, leaning forward with grace. Up Nob Hill and down she went, along the saddle, up Russian Hill and over, without her customary pause to enjoy the glorious outlooks. Under her arm she still carried the book from the library which she had forgotten to put down when first Blanchard Cayley spoke to her. She held it automatically, apparently not knowing that it was there. With it she gripped her glove; her right hand was still bare, clenching her skirt. She turned into her street at last, and climbed the wooden steps, into the garden. As she went up the path, her eyes lighted upon the sun-dial. She stopped and looked at it for a moment fixedly. Then into the house, up-stairs to her room, to throw herself upon the bed... The wind had risen and blew gustily about the house. Her shutter banged at intervals. The noise kept up till she rose, opened the window and fastened back the blind, and went back to her bed. There she lay, staring, with her eyes wide open... Her father did not come home that evening. At half-past seven she got up again, washed her face, arranged her hair, and went down-stairs to eat dinner alone. Afterward she stepped out into the garden. The wind billowed her skirts, fretted her hair into a swirl of tawny brown, cooled her cheeks. For an hour she walked up and down in the dark. The harbor was thick with mist. The siren on Lime Point sobbed across the Gate intermittently ... Later, she went into the library and sat down with a book beside the fire. For a half-hour she did not turn a page, but remained quiescent, gazing at the flames...