"You must have misunderstood him," he managed to say. She shook her head sadly. "No; he was most precise in explaining the conditions to me the day after his return from Milwaukee. I remember that I was very much interested. The work, you know, upset our plan for going to Florida, and I was quite resentful at first. You can imagine my astonishment when I found that he was doing landscapes and not the figures the order calls for." Converse was dumb in the face of this indisputable evidence. He could muster up no way to relieve her fears. There could be no reassuring her after what she had seen and he wisely forebore. "It was very strange," he said, finally. "He must have a reason for the change, and no doubt he has forgotten to speak to you about it." "I wish I could believe that, Douglass," she sighed. "He likes you. You can help me, if you will." "With all my heart. Anything in the world, Celeste," he cried. "Then get him away from his work as much as possible. He won't go out anywhere, you know. I've implored him to go out with me time and again. Douglass, can't you think of some way to--to get him away from himself?" She was standing beside him, her hand clasping his as it rested on the arm of the chair. Converse looked up into the troubled eyes. "Tell me what to do, Celeste, and I'll try," he said, earnestly. "Make him go out with you--go out among the men he used to know and liked so well. I'm sure he likes them still. He'd enjoy being with them, don't you think? He seldom leaves his studio, much less the house. I want you to take him to luncheons and dinners--where the men are. It will get him out of himself, I know. Do, Douglass, do for my sake, make him forget his work. Take him back to the old life in the club, at the cafés--if only for a little while. Don't you understand?" "You mean--oh, Celeste, you don't mean to say that he is tired of this happiness?" he cried. "He is unhappy, I'm sure of it. He loves me, I know, but--" She could go no further. "I know what you mean, Celeste, but you are wrong--fearfully wrong. Poor little woman! God, but you are brave to look at it as you do." They did not hear Jud as he stopped on the stairs to look down upon them. He saw them and was still. The pain was almost unbearable. There was no jealousy in it, only remorse and pity. "Ah, if only she belonged to him and not to me," he was thinking. "He is straight as a die, and she would never know unhappiness. He loved her, he loves her still, and she--poor darling, loves me, the basest wretch in all the world." He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the stairway. Its creaking attracted the attention of the two in the drawing-room. When he looked again, they were standing and staring at him. Slowly he descended, a mechanical smile forcing itself into his face. "Hello, Doug," he said. "I thought I heard your voice. Glad to see you."