Rufus dropped a cube of sugar into his coffee cup and contemplated Miss Claes’ ankle. His mind became industrious. He was thinking how he would describe the ankle if he were using it in a story. He thought of several narrow white things. There was a white greyhound, but you couldn’t say a woman’s ankle was like that. There was a white pleasure yacht on the river, with narrow lines and clipper bow that bore a psychological likeness, but it would take a paragraph to put that over. The boneheads would think of boiler plate. Then there was a birch tree and a polar bear and a snowy church spire ... anyway the ankle was fetching. “You look great this morning, Miss Claes, and see here----” He spread out his letter from a most rich and inaccessible editorial room. “How interesting, Rufus. You are doing so well with your stories.” “Pidge thinks they’re rotten,” he chuckled. No comment from Miss Claes. “She’d have me sit in a cave and growl over a story--bringing one out every three months for editors to muss their hair over and finally turn down. That’s the life----” Miss Claes had turned to the cabinet of dishes, the double doors of which were open. One might have thought that Rufus was now entirely involved in the subject of Pidge’s idea of stories, but in reality he was studying Miss Claes’ waist and throat and profile. Her particular freshness from boots up this morning fascinated his eye. She took his coffee cup to the kitchen to be refilled, and when she came back close to his chair, Rufus’ arm moved engagingly around her hips, his face turning up with a questioning boyish smile. “What is it, Rufus?” she asked, making no movement to be free from his arm. “You’re mighty charming this morning----” “It’s a charming morning.” His arm tightened a little, yet she stood perfectly still. Rufus was now in a quandary. This sitting posture had its diminishing aspect: yet to arise and disentangle his feet from under the table, he must loosen his arm or show an uncouth line to the camera, so to speak. Rufus rarely broke his rhythms in these little performances; certainly not when the going was as delicate as this. Miss Claes had become especially desirable, because of an exciting uncertainty about her, and an affectation, at least, of allegiance to Pidge. If he had only had sense enough to turn his chair around, before taking her in. Presently Rufus reached the conclusion that it was better to draw her down to him, than take a chance of getting his arm around her again. She came--no resistance, no rigidity. His lips found her shadowy cheek, and an indescribable and most disturbing fragrance from her neck and hair. Or was it the extraordinary coolness of everything that disturbed, or the words gently whispered in his ear: “You’re such a lonely boy. You don’t understand at all what you are really dying for.”