"A man who cares nothing about me--and never will. He's just a friend--so much the friend that he couldn't possibly think of me as--as a woman, needing him and wanting him"--her eyes were on fire now, and a soft glow had come into her cheeks--"and never daring to show it because if I did he would fly and never let me see him again." Cyrilla Brindley's face was tragic as she looked at the beautiful girl, so gracefully adjusted to the big chair. She sighed covertly. "You are lovely," she said, "and young--above all, young." "This man is peculiar," replied Mildred forlornly. "Anyhow, he doesn't want ME. He knows me for the futile, weak, worthless creature I am. He saw through my bluff, even before I saw through it myself. If it weren't for him, I could go ahead--do the sensible thing--do as women usually do. But--" She came to a full stop. "Love is a woman's sense of honor," said Cyrilla softly. "We're merciless and unscrupulous--anything--everything--where we don't love. But where we do love, we'll go farther for honor than the most honorable man. That's why we're both worse and better than men--and seem to be so contradictory and puzzling." "I'd do anything for him," said Mildred. She smiled drearily. "And he wants nothing." She had nothing more to say. She had talked herself out about Stanley, and her mind was now filled with thoughts that could not be spoken. As she rose to go to bed, she looked appealingly at Cyrilla. Then, with a sudden and shy rush she flung her arms round her and kissed her. "Thank you--so much," she said. "You've done me a world of good. Saying it all out loud before YOU has made me see. I know my own mind, now." She did not note the pathetic tenderness of Cyrilla's face as she said, "Good night, Mildred." But she did note the use of her first name--and her own right first name--for the first time since they had known each other. She embraced and kissed her again. "Good night, Cyrilla," she said gratefully. As she entered Jennings's studio the next day he looked at her; and when Jennings looked, he saw--as must anyone who lives well by playing upon human nature. He did not like her expression. She did not habitually smile; her light-heartedness, her optimism, did not show themselves in that inane way. But this seriousness of hers was of a new kind, of the kind that bespeaks sobriety and saneness of soul. And that kind of seriousness--the deep, inward gravity of a person whose days of trifling with themselves and with the facts of life, and of being trifled with, are over--would have impressed Jennings equally had she come in laughing, had her every word been a jest. "No, I didn't come for a lesson--at least not the usual kind," said she. He was not one to yield without a struggle. Also he wished to feel his way to the meaning of this new mood. He put her music on the rack. "We'll begin where we--"