His sister rumpled his hair. "So you want to get rid of me. Becky, he is going to ask questions about that boy who wrote the story." "Are you?" Becky demanded. "Louise is a mind reader. That's why I want her out of the way----" "You can stay until the Admiral finishes his letter." Louise bent and kissed him, picked up her beaded bag, and left them together. When she reached the threshold, she stopped and looked back. Archibald had piled up two red cushions and was sitting at Becky's feet. "Tell me about him." "Randy?" "Yes. He's in love with you, of course." "What makes you think that?" "He sent you the story." "Well, he is," she admitted, "but I am not sure that we ought to talk about it." "Why not?" "Is it quite fair, to him?" "Then we'll talk about his story. It gripped me---- Oh, let's have it out, Becky. He loves you and you don't love him. Why don't you?" "I can't--tell you----" There was silence for a moment, then Archibald Cope said gently, "Look here, girl dear, you aren't happy. Don't I know it? There's something that's awfully on your mind and heart. Can't you think of me as a sort of--father confessor--and let me--help----?" She clasped her hands tensely on her knees; the knuckles showed white. "Nobody can help." "Is it as bad as that?" "Yes." She looked away from him. "There is somebody else--not Randy. Somebody that I shouldn't think about. But I--do----" She was dry-eyed. But he felt that here was something too deep for tears. "Does Randy know?" "Yes. I told him. We have always talked about things----" "I see," he sat staring into the fire, "and of course it is Randy that you ought to marry----" "I don't want to marry anyone. I shall never marry----" "Tut-tut, my dear." He laid his hand over hers. "Do you know what I was thinking, Becky, to-day, as we walked the Boston streets? I was thinking of why those big houses were built, rows upon rows of them, and of the people who lived in them. Those old houses speak of homes, Becky, of people who wanted household gods, and neighborly gatherings, and community interests. They weren't the kind of people who ran around Europe with a paint box, as I have been doing. They had home-keeping hearts and they built for the future." He was very much in earnest. She had, indeed, never seen him so much in earnest. "It is all very well," he went on, "to talk of a tent in a desert or a hut on a mountain top, but when we walked across the Common this morning, it seemed to me that if I could really have lived the game we played--that life could have held nothing better in the world for me than that, my dear."