She received him, in a simple, straight-cut, black gown--caught up close, like all her garments, below her breast--a soft and singing thing. Quincy was in a dinner coat which he had had two years and had outgrown. The padded shoulder and artificial box effect made his slenderness seem gaunt. But he was really pale. It was a plain meal and took little time. There was no wine. And, with academic grace, Julia Deering carved the chicken and served the fruit, herself. But when Quincy arose from the table, he was flushed and exalted as if the little supper had been a feast. A glow fretted the green pallor of his cheeks. He followed Julia into her room and sank upon the primmest chair, holding his knees. When she went to light a lamp, he did not offer to assist her. He watched her supple figure bend over the table. He saw the gap caused by her posture, between her breast and the garment. The glow gave a red note to her hair. Then, she passed him, her dress forever singing, and composed herself upon the couch--cushions supporting her back and one of gleaming copper, which she had carefully smoothed, before her to rest her hand. The other arm was flung behind her head. She faced him, erect from her waist, with her gown lost in the shadow. “What have you done, this last month?” she suddenly asked. “Have you been thinking of me?” “Yes,” he replied. “And what have you been thinking?” “I’ve been wondering why you liked me.” “Should I tell you?” She questioned him with her eyes also. “I like you because you are all in the future. When women get to be my age, they love to feel that they have a hold on the future. I am thirty-two,” she laughed. “I don’t understand,” he stammered. “You are a bit of my future,” she went on, “you shan’t ever lose the trace of me that I shall put in you. In that way, some of me has its youth still before it.” Quincy had no impulse to break his silence. She continued. The lamp burned against her face, for him; against his face, for her. The room rolled away from it in a warm shadow. “Can you deny that a trace of me will be indelible in you? I understand you so. Tell me, my boy--am I not the first woman who was ever kind to you?” All of his manful air died out. There were tears in his eyes. He had thought of mentioning the girl he had kissed--and Adelaide, and mother. But he was afraid she might laugh. “Do not think less of my kindness, Quincy, because I mentioned it.” These words came low, and that which followed fitted almost into the shadows, so warm and still was it. “You have been kind to me. You have helped me also--more than I ever can help you. I need you to be kind to, Quincy.” He gazed at her. Her eyes came straight and true to him. There was no doubting them. And in the vibrance of their aim, they rang upon the flint of his old challenge. Thus it was that his words came sudden, unpremeditated, hard. “And your husband--?” he asked.