Her room was the first on the left side of the gallery, Joe’s next to Sybil’s on the land front of the house. She passed the long line of closed doors, voices coming from behind Mrs. Cornell’s, and reaching Joe’s, knocked. A “Come in,” uninvitingly loud and harsh, answered her and she entered. Joe was sitting in a low armchair, bent forward, his hands holding a cane with which he was tapping on the floor. The bright square of the window was behind him, framing rosy sky and the green shore-line. He looked up to see who it was; then, without greeting or comment, drooped his head and went on lightly striking the cane on the carpet as if he were hammering in a nail and it required all his attention. Anne felt dashed, his manner might have been the same to an intruding stranger. She asked about the key, and he nodded to the bureau where it lay. The trunk was packed and locked? To that he gave an assenting grunt, then raised his head and looked at her--what have you come here for, the look said. It was not a reception to encourage confidences and she stood uncomfortably regarding him, trying to find something to say that would dispel his somber ill humor. “You’re all ready? Where’s your luggage?” “Down by the door. Is there anything else you want to know?” “_I_ don’t want to know, I was thinking of you. You’re always late, and it’s different here with only one way to get ashore and Gabriel never willing to wait.” He made no answer, continuing his play with the cane. She knew that something was wrong and sat down on the arm of a chair, uneasy, wondering what it was: “I’m glad you’ve managed this holiday. And it’s so jolly having Jimmy Travers, he’s such a sport. You’ll meet him to-night at Bangor. At the Algonquin Inn--wasn’t that the name of it?” “Um.” “I want to be sure because if any important mail should come for you I could send it there to meet you on your way back. Algonquin Inn--I’ll remember that. Then off to-morrow morning--it’ll be lovely in the woods now.” “Any place would be lovely after this beastly hole.” “Beastly hole! I thought you liked it!” “Did you? Take another guess.” “You expected to like it. You wanted to come.” He made no answer, but slanting his body sidewise with an air of ostentatious endurance, took out his watch and looked at it. She ignored the hint--you couldn’t be sensitive with Joe--and leaning toward him asked: “What’s the matter, Joe?” “Matter--with what?” “You! Has anything happened?” “Oh, no, nothing’s happened.” His words were mincingly soft. “What _could_ happen with such a charming lot of people and Miss Saunders playing the star rôle in the performance and out.” It was Sybil then--he’d been working himself into a bad temper over her treatment of him. Anne had thought it odd he had not mentioned it before: