Amelia and her husband were leaving the terrace together. Battle walked to the “sedan” with her and held the door open for her; she climbed to the driver’s seat and seemed to wait, with assurance, for him to do more than hold the door. And at this moment the seriousness of his expression was so emphasized that it was easily visible to the Georgian window, though only his profile was given to its view as he looked back, over his shoulder, at the glazing smile of the lady upon the terrace. He seemed to waver, hesitating; and then, somewhat bleakly, he climbed into the “sedan” beside his wife. “_Open it!_” Mrs. Dodge was struggling with a catch of the Georgian window. “What for?” “She’s shouting again! I’ve _got_ to hear her!” Mrs. Dodge panted; and the window yielded to her exertions. Amelia’s attitude showed that she was encouraging her machine to begin operations, while at the same time she was calling parting words to Mrs. Sylvester. “Good-bye!” Amelia shouted. “Mr. Battle says he’s been _so_ inspired by your sympathy in his work! Mr. Battle says that’s _so_ necessary to an architect! Mr. Battle says _no_ artist can ever even _hope_ to do anything great without it! Mr. Battle says——” But here, under the urging of her foot, the engine burst into a shattering uproar: ague seized the car with a bitter grip; convulsive impulses of the apparatus to leap at random were succeeded by more decorous ideas, and then the “sedan” moved mildly forward; the vegetables nodded affably in the windows, and the Battles were borne from sight. “I see,” said Lydia Dodge, moving back to her chair. “I understand now.” “You understand what?” her hostess inquired, brusquely, as she closed the Georgian window. “I understand what I just saw. I can’t tell you exactly how or why, but it was plainly _there_—in Roderick Brooks Battle’s look, in his slightest gesture. We were absolutely mistaken to think it possible. He’ll never ask Amelia to step aside: he’ll never leave her. And however much he philanders, _she’ll_ never leave _him_, either. She’ll go straight on the way she’s always gone. _He’s_ shown us that, and _she’s_ shown us that.” “Well, then,” Mrs. Cromwell inquired; “why is it? You say you understand.” “It’s because he knows that between his Venetian romance and his press agent he’s got to take the press agent. He’s had sense enough to see he mightn’t be a great man at all without his press agent—and he’d rather keep on being a great man. And Amelia knows she’s getting too skimpy-looking to get a chance to make a great man out of anybody _else_; so she wouldn’t let me tell her about him, because she’s going to stick to him!”