She scanned him keenly before she answered: “Something that I should like to tell you--that you ought to know. Alan, do you think you are fit to judge of a very serious matter?” He laughed pathetically. “I don't believe I'm in a very judicial frame of mind to-night, Bess. To-morrow--” “Oh, to-morrow! Where will you be to-morrow?” “That's true! Well, what is it? I'll try to listen. But if you knew how my nerves were going.” His eyes wandered from hers back to the decanters. “If I had just one glass--” “I'll have one, too,” she said, with a motion toward the decanter next her. He threw up his arms. “Oh well, go on. I'll listen as well as I can.” He sank down in his chair and stretched his little feet out toward the fire. “Go on!” She hesitated before she began. “Do you know who brought you home last night, Alan?” “Yes,” he answered, quickly, “Westover.” “Yes, Mr. Westover brought you, and you wouldn't stay. You don't remember anything else?” “No. What else?” “Nothing for you, if you don't remember.” She sat in silent hopelessness for a while, and her brother's eyes dwelt on the decanters, which she seemed to have forgotten. “Alan!” she broke out, abruptly, “I'm worried, and if I can't tell you about it there's no one I can.” The appeal in her voice must have reached him, though he seemed scarcely to have heeded her words. “What is it?” he asked, kindly. “You went back to the Enderbys' after Mr. Westover brought you home, and then some one else had to bring you again.” “How do you know?” “I was up, and let you in--” “Did you, Bessie? That was like you,” he said, tenderly. “And I had to let him in, too. You pulled him into the house, and you made such a disturbance at the door that he had to come in for fear you would bring the police.” “What a beast!” said Alan, of himself, as if it were some one else. “He came in with you. And you wanted him to have some supper. And you fell asleep before the fire in the reception-room.” “That--that was the dream!” said Alan, severely. “What are you talking that stuff for, Bessie?” “Oh no!” she retorted, with a laugh, as if the pleasure of its coming in so fitly were compensation for the shame of the fact. “The dream was what happened afterward. The dream was that you fell asleep there, and left me there with him--” “Well, poor old Westover; he's a gentleman! You needn't be worried about him--” “You're not fit!” cried the girl. “I give it up.” She got upon her feet and stood a moment listless. “No, I'm not, Bessie. I can't pull my mind together tonight. But look here!” He seemed to lose what he wanted to say. He asked: “Is it something I've got you in for? Do I understand that?” “Partly,” she said. “Well, then, I'll help you out. You can trust me, Bessie; you can, indeed. You don't believe it?” “Oh, I believe you think I can trust you.”