"Is Martin with him?" It was an inspiration, an uncanny piece of feminine intuition. Young Oldershaw was honest. "He's staying with Gray," he said reluctantly. "Where?" "At Devon." "Devon? Isn't that the place we drove to the other day--with a little club and a sort of pier and sailboats gliding about?" "Yes. They've got one." Ah, that was why she had had a queer feeling of Martinism while she had sat there having tea, watching the white sails against the sky. On one of those boats bending gracefully to the wind Martin must have been. "Where are they living?" "In a cottage that belongs to a pal of Gray's, so far as I could gather." In a cottage, together! Then the girl whom she had called "Fairy,"--the girl who was human and real, according to Gilbert, couldn't be, surely couldn't be, with them. "Will you drive me over?" she asked. "When?" "Now." "Why, of course, Joan, if I--must," he said. It somehow seemed to him to be wrong and incredible that she had a husband,--this girl, so free and young and at the very beginning of things, like himself, and whom he had grown into the habit of regarding as his special--hardly property, but certainly companion and playmate. "If you're not keen about it, Harry, I'll ask Mr. Hosack or a chauffeur. Pray don't let me take you an inch out of your way." In an instant he was off his stilts and on his marrow bones. "Please don't look like that and say those things. You've only got to tell me what you want and I'll get it. You know that." "Thank you, Harry, the sooner the better, then," she said, with a smile that lit up her face like a sunbeam. She must see Martin, she must, she must! The old longing had come back. It was like a pain. And being with Howard Oldershaw in that cottage he was alone, and being alone he had got back into his armor. SHE had a clean slate. "Hurry, hurry," she said. And when Harry hurried, as he did then, though with a curious misgiving, there were immediate results. Before Joan had chosen a hat, and for once it was difficult to make a choice, she heard his whistle and from the window of her bedroom saw him seated, hatless and sunburnt to the roots of his fair hair, in his low-lying two-seater. It was, at his pace, a short run eastward over sandy roads, lined with stunted oaks and thick undergrowth of poison ivy, scrub and ferns; characteristic Long Island country with here a group of small untidy shacks and there a farm and outhouses with stone walls and scrap heaps, clothes drying on a line, chickens on the ceaseless hunt and a line of geese prowling aimlessly, easily set acackle,--a primitive end-of-everywhere sort of country just there, with sometimes a mile of half burned trees, whether done for a purpose or by accident it would be difficult to say. At any rate, no one seemed to care. It all had the look of No Man's Land,--unreclaimed and unreclaimable.