Could he, she wondered, fearful with a delicious fear. Had he begun already? She lifted her hand and looked at the palm in the clear light of the moon. There was nothing there, of course. Absurd! She had known there wouldn’t be. It was only a trick of high-strung nerves which made the center of it throb and glow. Desperately, in a panic, she set herself to determine a course of action. If Peter did not go away at once, she herself would go away--away somewhere to hide and to wait for her twentieth birthday when Luke could come and marry her, and everything would be settled forever. She would have kept her two promises and her father--if he still had any cognizance of terrestrial things--would be satisfied. She put a firm period to her meditations at that point. She did not try to picture a lifetime with Luke, but clung doggedly to the feeling that, if she acted loyally and faithfully, things must come right. Luke Manders, the splendid young mountaineer; Luke, the doctor’s discovery and pride; the golden lad of their golden legend. _Luke, Luke, Luke!_ Surely, if she kept saying it over and over, it would fill her mind, and there wouldn’t be room for anybody--for anything else, and the silly place in her palm would stop pulsing, pulsing.... “Well, here we are!” said her companion, briskly. “A delightful night for a walk, and I have enjoyed it extremely. I try very hard to do a certain amount of walking every day, but in my intensely busy life it is apt to be crowded out.” Luke Manders, scowling blackly, met them at the door. He greeted the mother of the young part owner with scant civility and was pushing past his assistant without a word, but she detained him with a hand on his arm. “Luke, I heard the whistle, and I came as soon as I could. You heard about Glory?” He nodded, making no comment. She waited for an instant, as if expecting a word of condolence, and then went on. “But, Luke--I thought we were not going to work nights this week?” He turned on her with more anger and impatience than he had ever displayed in all the history of their friendship, their courtship. Why wouldn’t they work nights? Weren’t they far behind and snowed under? Didn’t they have to get out those rush orders or throw up their hands? Was he working anybody any harder than he worked himself? Hadn’t she common sense enough to see the necessity of it? It was not so much a matter of ugly words as ugly voice and manner; not so much the substance of what he said, but the sound of it--the snarl in his tone, the hot bitterness in his eyes. He caught himself up suddenly, muttered something--a scrap of apology, perhaps--and flung himself into the spinning room. Mrs. Eugenia Parker looked after him with grave displeasure. “What a very morose and ill-tempered young man!”