She rose. Her gaze swept the faces of the others, came back to Grove. It seemed to Rod that her glance flashed hostility at her husband, although she was smiling. And in the same breath he caught a queer flicker of expression on Phil's usually immobile face. Undercurrents. Veiled swirls of feeling. Rod sensed them all about him, as if a state of tension had been set up. That, he thought irritably, was Grove's usual effect. If he were crossed, ever so slightly, he proceeded at once to generate an atmosphere. "He had to get at somebody so he takes it out on Laska," Rod said to himself. "Snarly beast. If she'd been keen on going to town, he'd have insisted on her staying here. Phil's sore. I wonder if the old boy's still a little tender about Laska?" The answer to that came within half an hour, when Rod had forgotten the passing thought. He had gone out on the porch to smoke. There was a recess behind a bulging window. There Rod found a chair. He sat deep in his own mixed reflections. Phil turned a corner and stood by a pillar, hands deep in his pockets. Just as Rod was about to speak, Laska came out. She was hatted and gloved, carrying a small bag. "Good-by, old scout," she said whimsically. "It's been very pleasant here the last few days. I thought I was going to get acquainted with you all over again. But the oracle decrees otherwise. Will you come and see me in town?" Phil shook his head. "Why not?" "Always too busy," he said briefly. "Of course," she agreed, after a pause. "How stupid of me to forget that. Well, good-by." They shook hands. Laska vanished around the house. Rod saw her appear on the gravel walk, joined by Mary, Dorothy and the others. He didn't need to ask why Phil was not with them to speed the departing guest. The expression on Phil's face as he stood looking after Laska told its own story. Rod understood. He was streaked with the same vein of constancy to an affection, an ideal, a conviction. He was supremely sorry for Phil--for them both. "Five years," he thought, "and it hurts him yet. Laska knows it, too. And she hasn't a shred of an illusion about Grove. Poor devils. And they have to go right on playing the game." There was a different sort of game afoot, however, the petty malice of which was presently disclosed to Rod. CHAPTER XV Within the month events marched one upon the heels of the other as if set in motion by some unseen intelligence working to an inscrutable plan.