She choked back a sob, and the slender hands that covered her eyes slowly clenched. Helen looked at her in consternation. Girls don’t usually betray so much emotion over some casual irregularity of a brother. Stephanie pressed her clenched hands mutely against her lids for a while, then, her lips still quivering, she reached for her brush and began to groom her splendid hair again. And Helen, watching her without a word, thought to self: "She behaves as though she were falling in love with him.... She’d certainly better be careful. The boy is already in love with her, no matter how he acts.... If she isn’t very, very careful she’ll get into trouble with him." Aloud she said cheerfully: "Steve, dear, I really think I’m clever enough to have taken the measure of your very delightful brother. And I honestly don’t believe it is in him to play fast and loose with any woman ever born." "He _is_ doing it!" "With whom?" "That—Dancing girl——" "Nonsense! If it’s an ephemeral romance, which I don’t believe, it’s a gay and harmless one. Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Steve." After Stephanie was in bed she kissed her lightly, smiled reassuringly, switched off the light and went to her own room, slowly. Very gravely she braided her hair before the mirror, looking at her pale, reflected face. Yet, though pale, it was still a fresh, wholesome, beautiful face. But the brown eyes stared sadly at their twin brown images, and the girl shook her head. For the nearest that Helen Davis had ever come to falling in love was when Cleland first walked into her studio. She could have fallen in love with him then—within the minute—out of a clear sky. She realized it after he had gone—not too deeply astonished—she, who had never before been in love, recognized its possibility all in a moment. But she had learned to hold herself in check since that first, abrupt and clear-minded recognition of such a possibility. Never by a word or glance had she ever betrayed herself; yet his very nearness to her, at times, set her heart beating, set a faint thrill stealing through her. Yet her eyes always met his pleasantly, frankly, steadily; her hand lay calm and cool in his when she welcomed him or bade him good-bye. Always she schooled herself to withstand what threatened her, gave it no food for reflection, no sustenance, no status, no consideration. Love came as no friend to her. She soon realized that. And she quietly faced him and bade him keep his distance. She looked at herself again in the glass. Her brown eyes were very, very serious. Then the smile glimmered. "Quand même," she murmured gaily, and switched off the light. *CHAPTER XXIV* It was a warm day in early June and Cleland, working in trousers and undershirt, and driven by thirst to his tin ice-box, discovered it to be empty.