He groaned inwardly. "What in time _can_ I do? Nothing to read within five miles: my last cigar gone yesterday: this beastly weather driving me to melancholia! If she weren't such a stick--heavens! I never knew a girl could be so thin!" The girl in question rose and began clearing the table. Her mother bustled out of the room, and left Willard in the old-fashioned arm-chair by the window, almost interested, as he wondered what the girl would do or say now. After five minutes of silence he realised the strange impression, or rather the lack of impression, she made on him. He was hardly conscious of a woman's presence. The intangible atmosphere of femininity that wraps around a _tête-à-tête_ with even the most unattractive woman was wholly lacking. She seemed simply a more or less intelligent human being. Given greatly to analysis, he grew interested. Why was this? She was not wanting intellectually, he was sure. Such remarks as she had made in answer to his own were not noticeable for stupidity or even stolidity of thought. He broke the silence. "What do you do with yourself, these days?" he suggested. "I don't see you about at all. Are you reading, or walking about these fascinating Maine beaches?" She did not even look up at him as she replied. "I don't know as I do very much of anything. I'm not very fond of reading--at least, not these books." Remembering the "Pilgrim's Progress," "Book of Martyrs," "Mrs. Heman's Poems," and the "Adventures of Rev. James Hogan, Missionary to the Heathen of Africa," that adorned the marble-topped table in the parlour, he shuddered sympathetically. "But I walk a good deal," she volunteered. "I've been all over that ledge you're painting." "Isn't it beautiful?" he said. "It reminds me of a poem I read somewhere about the beauty of Appledore--that's on this coast somewhere, too, isn't it? You'd appreciate the poem, I'm sure--do you care for poetry?" She piled the dishes on a tray, and carried it through the door before he had time to take it from her. "No," she replied over her shoulder, "no, I don't care for it. It seems so--so smooth and shiny, somehow." "Smooth? shiny?" he smiled as she came back, "I don't see." Her high, rather indifferent voice fell in a slight embarrassment, as she explained: "Oh, I mean the rhymes and the verses--they're so even and like a clock ticking." He took from his pocket a little red book. "Let me read you this," he said eagerly, "and see if you think it smooth and shiny. You must have heard and seen what this man tries to tell." She stood awkwardly by the table, her scant, shapeless dress accentuating the straight lines of her slim figure, her hands clasped loosely before her, her face turned toward the window, which rattled now and then at the gusts of the rising wind. Willard held the little book easily between thumb and finger, and read in clear, pleasant tones, looking at her occasionally with interest: