But she would not be led to the cosy corner by the window. She found something needing her attention in the curtain of the bookcase in the dimmest corner of the room, and began solicitously to pull it in various ways, as if there were something wrong with it. He watched her, standing with his arm on the high chimney-piece. "I think you enjoyed it just a little bit yourself, though," he observed. "Didn't you, chum?" "Yes, indeed," said Juliet. Her back was toward him, her head bent down, but his quick ear detected a peculiar quality in her voice. He questioned her again hurriedly. "You're not sorry you did it?" "Oh, no," said Juliet. Now there is not much in two such simple replies as these to indicate the state of one's mind and heart; but when a girl has been crying stormily and uninterruptedly for a half-hour, and is only not crying still because she is holding back the torrent of her unhappiness by sheer force of will, it is radically impossible to say so much as four words in a perfectly natural way. Anthony understood in a breath that the unfamiliar note in his friend's voice was that of tears. And, strange to say, into his face there flashed a look of triumph. But he only said very gently: "Come here a minute--will you, Juliet?" She bent lower over the curtain. Then she stood up, without looking at him, and moved toward the door. "I believe I'm rather tired," she said in a low tone. "It has been so warm all day, and I--I have a headache." In three steps he came after her, stopping her with his hand grasping hers as she would have left the room. "Come back--please," he urged. "Your aunt is asleep out there, I think. I wanted to go over the house once more with you, if you would. But you're too tired for that. Just come back and sit down in this nook of yours, and let's talk a little." She could not well refuse, and he put her into a nest of cushions, arranging them carefully behind her back and head, and sat down facing her. He had placed her just where the waning light from the western sky fell full on her face; his own was in the shadow. He was watching her unmercifully--she felt that, and desperately turned her face aside, burying in a friendly pillow the cheek which was colouring under his gaze. "Is the headache so bad?" he asked softly. "I never knew Juliet Marcy to have a headache before. Poor little girl--dear little girl--who has worked so hard to please her old friend." He leaned forward and she felt his hand upon her hair. The tenderness in his voice and touch were carrying away all her defences. But he went on without giving her respite. "Do you think _she_ will be happy here, chum? Will it take the place of the old life for a few years, till I can give her more? She'll have nothing here, you know, outside of this little home, but my love. That wouldn't be enough for any ordinary woman, would it?"