It was calm and restful, but it gave one a feeling of loneliness, too; Antioch seemed very remote from the great world where things happened, or were done. In spite of his satisfaction, Dan vaguely realized this. To the girl at his side, however, the situation was absolutely tragic. The life she had known had been so different, but it had been purchased at the expense of a good deal of inconvenience and denial on the part of her father and mother. It was impossible to ask a continuance of the sacrifice, and it was equally impossible to remain in Antioch. She did not want to be selfish, but the day was not far off when it would resolve itself into a question of simple self-preservation. She had not yet reached the point where she could consider marriage as a possible means of escape, and, even if she had, it would not have solved the problem, for whom was she to marry? There was a tired, fretful look in her eyes. She had lost something of her brilliancy and freshness. In her despair she told herself she was losing everything. “I was with friends of yours this afternoon, Mr. Oakley,” she said, by way of starting the conversation. “Friends of mine, here?” “Yes. The Joyces.” “I must go around and see them. They have been very kind to my father,” said Dan, with hearty good-will. “How long is your father to remain in Antioch, Mr. Oakley?” inquired Constance. “As long as I remain, I suppose. There are only the two of us, you know.” “What does he find to do here?” “Oh,” laughed Dan, “he finds plenty to do. His energy is something dreadful. Then, too, he's employed at the shops; that keeps him pretty busy, you see.” But Miss Emory hadn't known this before. She elevated her eyebrows in mild surprise. She was not sure she understood. “I didn't know that he was one of the officers of the road,” with deceptive indifference. “He's not. He's a cabinet-maker,” explained the literal Oakley, to whom a cabinet-maker was quite as respectable as any one else. There was a brief pause, while Constance turned this over in her mind. It struck her as very singular that Oakley's father should be one of the hands. Perhaps she credited him with a sensitiveness of which he was entirely innocent. She rested her chin in her hands and gazed out into the dusty street. “Isn't it infinitely pathetic to think of that poor little man and his work?” going back to Joyce. “Do you know, I could have cried? And his wife's faith, it is sublime, even if it is mistaken.” She laughed in a dreary fashion. “What is to be done for people like that, whose lives are quite uncompensated?” To Oakley this opened up a field for future speculation, but he approved of her interest in Joyce. It was kindly and sincere, and it was unexpected. He had been inclined to view her as a proud young person, unduly impressed with the idea of her own beauty and superiority. It pleased him to think he had been mistaken.