"I saw Maurice in Medfield on Thursday," said Eleanor; "and he doesn't seem to want to say what he was doing there!" "I am perfectly willing to tell you what I was doing," he retorted; "I went from our office to see the woman who rents the house." Eleanor's slow mind accepted this entirely true and successfully false remark with only the wonder of wounded love. "Why didn't he say that at first?" she thought; "why does he hide things from me?" Maurice, however, made sure of that "hiding." Eleanor's attack upon him frightened him so badly that that very afternoon, after office hours (Eleanor being safe in bed with a headache), he went to see Lily. Her astonishment at another visit so soon was obvious; she was still further astonished when he told her why he had come. He hated to tell her. To speak of Eleanor offended his taste--but it had to be done. So, stammering, he began--but broke off: "Send that child away!" "Run out in the yard, Sweety," Lily commanded. "Won't," said Jacky. "Clear out!" Maurice said, sharply, and Jacky obeyed like a shot--but paused on the porch to turn the ferociously clanging doorbell round and round and round. "Well," Maurice began, "I'll tell you what's happened... Lily! Make him stop!" "Say, now, Jacky, stop," Lily called; but Jacky, seized apparently with a new idea, had already stopped, and was running out on to the pavement. So again Maurice began his story. Lily's instant and sympathetic understanding was very reassuring. He even caught himself, under the comfort of her quick co-operation, ranging himself with her, and saying _"we."_ "We've got to guard against anything happening, you know." "Oh, my soul and body, yes!" Lily agreed; "it would be too bad, and no sense, either; you and me just acquaintances. 'Course I'll move, Mr. Curtis. But, there! I hate to leave my garden--and I've just papered this room! And I don't know where to go, either," she ended, with a worried look. "How would you like to go to New York?" he said, eagerly. She shook her head: "I've got a lot of friends in this neighborhood. But there's a two-family house on Ash Street--" "Say," said Jacky, in the hall; "I got--" "Oh, but you must leave Medfield!" he protested; "she"--that "she" made him wince--"she may try to hunt you up." "She can't. She don't know my name." Maurice felt as if privacy were being pulled away from his soul, as skin might be flayed from living flesh. "But you see," he began, huskily, "there's a--a girl who lives with us; and she--she mentioned your name." Then, cringing, he told her about Edith. Lily looked blankly puzzled; then she remembered; "Why, yes, sure enough! It was right at the gate--oh, as much as four years ago; I slipped, and she grabbed Jacky. Yes; it comes back to me; she told me she seen me the time we got ducked. 'Course, I gave her the glassy eye, and said I didn't remember the gentleman in the boat with her. And she caught on that I lived here? Well, now, ain't the world small?"