"Here, here, West, none of that," the older man corrected, sharply. "That's no thing to say--what is the matter?" "It's Pippa," he returned, simply. "She won't marry me. I'll kill myself if she don't. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think. It cuts into me night and day. You don't know how it kills me--you don't know!" He writhed like a child in physical pain. His face was distorted: he made no more effort to conceal his misery than his delight of weeks ago. Delafield showed a little of his disgust. "Come, come, West," he said, "control yourself. This is no killing matter. Better men than you have been thrown over before this. If she won't have you, take it like a man, and get to work. It's time your book was under way." West stared dully at him. "Book? book?" he repeated. "Oh, damn the book! I'd throw it away this minute to feel her arms around me! When I think of how we used to sit in Uncle Joseph's hammock--Oh, I can't endure it, I can't!" He leaned his head on his arms and rocked to and fro in abject misery. "She laughs at me--just laughs at me!" he moaned. "I'm ashamed to go near them." "Keep away, then," said Delafield shortly. "I can't!" he fairly sobbed. Anne spoke softly from a dim corner: "Does she know about the book?" "She doesn't care anything about it. She says I better be getting a job somewhere. I--I would, if she'd marry me. I'd go to the drug-store!" "Oh, no!" she breathed. "If only she'd be engaged again," he muttered, half to himself, "I'd finish the book, and then, perhaps----" He began to rock again. "But she won't, she won't!" he wailed. "If you will tell me where she lives," said Anne quietly, and as if the conversation were to the last degree conventional, "I will go to see her and talk the matter over. Perhaps she doesn't understand----" "My dear Anne! Are you mad?" As Delafield spoke, West interrupted: "I'd rather Mr. Delafield would go," he said quickly, "if--if he would. Maybe she'd listen to you." "I will do nothing of the sort," Delafield returned angrily. "As if anything I could say could compare with Miss Delafield's words! You are an ungrateful little beast, West. A woman, like Pippa herself, is the best person to understand the matter." "All right," the boy assented wearily, "only she isn't like Pippa, not a bit. Pippa's different." Anne coloured deeply, and Delafield cursed the day he met the boy. His niece he did not pretend to understand. The next afternoon, as he chafed in the stuffy dining-room-parlour of the flat that was Pippa's home, listening to the quarrelling of a half dozen children on the dreary little roof-garden below him as to who should swing in Uncle Joseph's hammock, he understood her less and less. What did she expect to gain from this visit? Was she satisfying her idea of duty or her curiosity? How much did she care, anyhow? A steady murmur of voices came from a room behind the one he occupied. The afternoon wore on. He began to grow sleepy.