I tiptoed to the door like a thief and as I took my coat and hat, Gina called out from the top of the stairs in uncomprehending astonishment. "Not going—Randolph!" And like a small avalanche she shot down the stairs. "Yes—yes—he is going, _bellessa mia_!" firmly shouted Visconti as he came running towards us. "He is called away—good night—good night!" "Good night," I said and held out my hand to Gina. But Gina’s manners are more modern than her father’s. She was dumbfounded and she turned her back upon me angrily, registering doubtless some standard emotion from a favorite movie. It was useless to try to placate her. I slipped out of the door which will never more open for me. The nightmarish quality of the episode persisted in my consciousness like a drug throughout the passage homeward, and it was not until I entered my door and saw a light in my study that reality began to assert itself. Reality meant the end—the end of my livelihood, the end of my hopes and plans—the end of the tether. Like an unfledged boy I must begin to breast the future all over again. A hero of romance would doubtless at that moment have thrilled to the struggle with new and seemingly insuperable obstacles. But alas! I am not a hero of romance! As I threw my coat upon the hatstand, a great weariness and a deep dejection fell upon me. Alicia came out of my study to greet me. As usual she had been waiting up for me. "Why on earth aren’t you in bed?" I growled irritably. Alicia scanned my face amid the shadows cast by the lamplight. "Go to bed, child," I repeated; "go to bed." "Something has happened," she murmured, frightened; "something has happened. Oh, tell me—what was it, Uncle Ranny?" I looked down at her with a scowl that was meant to be forbidding—a warning that I was in no mood for triflingness. She seized my hand, still holding my gaze with that starry look in her eyes that invariably probes deep and rests in my inmost soul. "Something has hurt you, Uncle Ranny," she whispered tremulously, "and you must tell me." Our eyes dwelt together for a space. "Oh, tell me!" she gulped, with a sudden terror dilating her eyes. "It isn’t—it isn’t that—man come back!" "Oh, no!" I shuddered involuntarily at the image she evoked of Pendleton. "Not that. Thank Heaven, Alicia, you’re no Pollyanna; you see the worst at once." "No," I finally muttered, looking away, "I have hurt somebody." "I can’t believe that," she retorted vehemently. "But if you think so—Please, please, tell me. It will be so much better, for you, Uncle Ranny." I had a sudden impulse to take her in my arms, but the emotion was not paternal. And—I was to her "Uncle Ranny." All unconscious she was guarded by her circle of sacred flames. Spasmodically I tore my hand out of her grasp and walked unsteadily across the room to my table. "Sit down over there," I motioned her as far away from me as possible. She stood still without complying.