"No, it isn’t, Uncle Ranny," she put her hand on my arm as she contradicted. "That is only the law of gravitation. There is a lot more to life than that!" "Yes, Alicia," I lowered my voice, "but when that man comes, how it will hurt to think of little Jimmie, of all those children of my sister’s in the care of that man who’s really her—her murderer!" "Please, please, don’t think of that!" she begged, with imploring eyes. "That hasn’t happened yet. And we’ll—we’ll manage it somehow. Maybe he’s a good man, after all—and, oh; we’ll watch him—we’ll watch him! Besides, he mayn’t come. If he is what you think, then I am sure he won’t come!" That proved a very cheering thought. Before I knew it, I was myself tossing a ball with Alicia and romping with the rest of them. It was only after the lunch had been eaten under the trees and the egg shells and papers were gathered and stowed away, and the gawky boy proceeded clumsily to monopolize Alicia, who has not the heart to snub anybody, that my depression returned. Whereupon Alicia gayly proposed that it was time to think of going home, because Jimmie was drowsy and must not forego his nap. Was it adroitness or spontaneity? I cannot tell, but it is marvelous how that girl anticipates and understands. It was a happy, tired, air-steeped company that returned home. A telegram has just arrived. Dibdin and Pendleton have landed in San Francisco!... *CHAPTER XIV* Pendleton is here. He has been here a week. Like one in the dazed excitement of some dream, the sort of farrago that leaves you limp and weakly smiling when you wake up and see the sun, I have been going about with numb limbs, strangely galvanized, not so much into activity as the expectation of activity. What is it I have been expecting to happen? I hardly know. But perhaps I have been expecting melodrama. And I am overcome by the obvious truism that genuine melodrama is anything but melodramatic. That is why melodrama on the stage, with its ranting and strutting and flourishes, disgusts one by its bathos. The presence of Pendleton in my house, occupying my bedroom while I have withdrawn into my little study, is the essence of melodrama. Yet every one and everything is in a tacit conspiracy to make it seem natural. There is a tension in the atmosphere, without doubt, but we are all of us madly, energetically ignoring it, hiding it. The man’s conduct has been astounding, unimpeachable, unexceptionable.