It was strange that Gilmore, whose books were considered to contain keen analysis of the human emotions, should have missed the catch in her voice, the touch of pathos, as she tried to mask her true feelings with a careless, matter-of-fact tone. But miss them he did, and he felt relieved that she was being such a good sport about it. "It's like you, Joan," he said warmly, "to take it like that, and I wish you'd try and make things as pleasant as you can for Helen. She still feels strange, and, I suppose, is overly sensitive. This is just between you and me, understand, but she has a notion that there is a feeling of antagonism, even among the servants, toward her. Of course that's ridiculous; no one could help loving Helen. She is wonderful, isn't she?" Joan could not force the polite falsehood to her lips, but Gilmore rushed on, taking no cognizance of her silence. "I've been honeymooning for the past three weeks, Joan, but I've got to get back into harness again--a very good simile, since my studio is a renovated stable--and rush the book to a finish. I've got to lock myself in and work. "Well, I'm afraid Helen is going to get pretty lonesome unless some one looks after entertaining her a bit. Atchinson has arranged with Victor Sarbella--you remember meeting Sarbella in town, of course--to draw the illustrations for my coming book, and he'll be out to-morrow for a stay of several days. He'll have time for loafing, while I'm working, and I wish you'd see to it that things are made as jolly as possible for Helen. "It's partly selfishness that I don't want country life to pall on Helen; I've got to make her contented with Greenacres, or she'll be pulling me away from the old place and into town." Joan's lips tightened. Kirk did not know, of course, how much he was asking of her. "You'd better be getting in to Helen," she said. And when Gilmore had gone, striding swiftly to the house, Joan Sheridan dropped to her knees in the grass, hugging the collie pup close, the one living thing she would have permitted to see the tears now flooding her dark eyes. "Oh, Laddie, boy," she whispered into one of the inquiringly cocked ears, "it's so hard to pretend--so hard! Oh, how I hate that woman--how I hate her! I didn't know there was so much hate in me." Kirklan Gilmore entered the house and went directly upstairs. A moment later he was rapping at the door of his wife's room and, after her muffled response from the other side of the panel, he went in. Helen was not, as he expected, dressing for dinner. She sat by the window in a listless, preoccupied attitude, and she had not so much as removed her hat. Her greeting was not that spontaneous explosion of welcoming joy that he would have liked after their first parting, even of the brief hours. "Hello, Kirklan," she said listlessly. "How's everything in New York? Hot, wasn't it?" Gilmore kissed her eagerly, but found her even more than usually unresponsive.