Mr. Sutton got up, at Dosia’s bidding, to alter the shade, and she moved a little, drawing Zaidee up to her to kiss her; Girard the next instant moved slightly also, so that her face was still within his range of vision, the intent gray eyes shaded by his hand. It was not her imagining—she felt the strong play of unknown forces; the gaze of those two men never left her, one covertly observant, the other most obviously so. George came back from his errand only to sit a little closer to Dosia, his eyes in their most suffused state. He was, indeed, in that stage of infatuation which can no longer brook any concealment, and for which other men feel a shamefaced contempt, though a woman, even while she derides, holds it in a certain respect as a foolish manifestation of something inherently great, and a tribute to her power. To Dosia’s indifference, in this strange dual sense of another and resented excitement,—an excitement like that produced on the brain by some intolerably high altitude,—Mr. Sutton’s attentions seemed to breathe only of a grateful warmth; she felt that he was being very, very kind. She could ask him to do anything for her, and he would do it, no matter what it was, just because she asked him. He was planning now a day on somebody’s yacht, with Lois, of course; and “What do you say, Miss Dosia—can’t we make it a family party, and take the children too?” he asked, with eager divination of what would please this lovely thing. “Yes, oh, why can’t you take _us_?” cried Zaidee, trembling with delight. The rain had ceased, but the sunlight had vanished, too; the whole place was growing dark. There was a sudden silence, in which Dosia’s voice was heard saying: “I’ll get my photograph now, if you want it.” She rose and left the room,—she could not have stayed in it a moment longer,—and Zaidee ran over to her father, her white frock crumpled and the cheek that had lain against Dosia rosy warm. “You had better light the lamp, Justin,” said Lois, and then, “Oh, you’re not going?” as Girard stood up. He turned his bright, gentle regard upon her. “I’m afraid I’ll have to.” “I expected you to stay to tea; I’ve had a place set for you.” “I’d like to very much—it’s kind of you to ask me—but I’m afraid not to-night. I’ll see you to-morrow, Sutton, I suppose. Good evening, Mrs. Alexander.” His hand-touch seemed to give an intimacy to the words. “Your stick is out here in the hall somewhere,” said Justin, investigating the corners for it, while Zaidee, who had followed the two, stood in the doorway. “I wonder if this little girl will kiss me good-by?” asked Girard tentatively. “Will you, Zaidee?” asked her father, in his turn.