"It’s cool. You must go there, Grismer. This place is unendurable. Do go up while Phil Grayson is there." "Is there anybody else?" "Helen—and Stephanie," he said, using her name with an effort. "The Belters were there for a week. No doubt Stephanie will ask other people during the summer." "When do you go back?" asked Grismer quietly. There was a short silence, then Cleland said in a voice of forced frankness: "I was about to tell you that I’m going over to Paris for a while. You know how it is—a man grows restless—wants to run over and take a look at the place just to satisfy himself that it’s still there." His strained smile remained stamped on his face after his gaze shifted from Grismer’s penetrating eyes—unsmiling, golden-deep eyes that seemed to have perceived a rent in him, and were looking through the aperture into the secret places of his mind. "When are you going, Cleland?" "Oh, I don’t know. Some time this week, if I can get accommodations." "You go alone?" "Why—of course!" "I thought perhaps you might feel that Stephanie ought to see Europe." "I hadn’t—considered——" He reddened, took a swallow of his orange juice, and, holding the glass, turned his eyes on the wax model. "How long will you be away?" asked Grismer in his still and singularly agreeable voice. There was another silence. Then Cleland made a painful effort at careless frankness once more: "That reminds me, Grismer," he exclaimed. "I can’t ever repay you for that fountain, but I can do my damndest with a cheque-book and a fountain pen. I should feel most uncomfortable if I went away leaving that obligation unsettled." He drew out his cheque-book and fountain pen and smiled resolutely at Grismer, whose dark golden eyes rested on him with an intentness that he could scarcely endure. "Would you let me give it to you, Cleland?" "I can’t, Grismer.... It’s splendid of you." "I shall not need the money," said Grismer, almost absently, and for an instant his gaze grew vague and remote. Then he turned his head again, where it lay cradled on his clasped hands behind his neck: "You won’t let me give it to you, I know. And there’s no use telling you that I shall not need the money. You won’t believe me.... You won’t understand how absolutely meaningless is money to me—just now. Well, then—write in what you care to offer." "I can’t do that, Grismer." The other smiled and, still smiling, named a figure. And Cleland wrote it out, detached the cheque, started to rise, but Grismer told him to lay it on the table beside his glass of orange juice. "It’s a thing no man can pay for," said Cleland, looking at the model. Grismer said quietly: