At last eleven o'clock came and Kent descended the stairs. But Clytie was out. Mrs. Gurkins, who answered his ring on Clytie's bell, informed him that Miss Davenant would not be in for lunch. Perhaps she would be back during the afternoon. So Kent went upstairs again, disappointed, and, after vainly trying to occupy himself, seized his hat and went out for a long tramp through Putney and Wimbledon. His heart was full of strange emotions that beset him for many hours, making them seem hopelessly long. Of the two Clytie passed by far the happier day. In the afternoon, on his return, he heard voices in the studio. He knocked and entered. Clytie was there with Winifred. “Can I come in?” “Of course,” said Clytie. “Why do you ask? We have been expecting you ever so long. In fact we have kept tea waiting for you.” He put down his hat and stick, nodded as usual to Winifred, and advanced, through force of later habit, with outstretched hand, to Clytie. She laid her fingers in his slowly, looked up at him from her chair by the stove, and laughed. “You forget I am no longer a visitor, Kent,” she said rebukingly. “Only this once, then,” he answered, “to welcome you back among us.” “Where have you learned to make pretty speeches?” asked Clytie. She was pleased with the words and gave his hand a sudden pressure. Kent brought a chair up to where Clytie and Winifred were sitting, tried to talk lightly, and failed. A silence came over the little party. Tea caused a distraction, and they fell to discussing indifferent subjects, odds and ends of gossip, but in a desultory fashion that each found strange. At last Clytie rose, cut the Gordian knot in her impulsive way. “I am going to do one or two things in the sitting-room,” she said. “You two have a talk until I come back.” Kent opened the door for her. On the threshold she turned and whispered to him: “Talk to Winifred a little. You will do each other good.” He closed the door after her and went back to Winifred. “So we have her with us again.” “Yes,” she replied gently, “and I don't know whether to feel sorry or glad.” “Did you know--had you any idea that she was unhappy? I never knew till yesterday--or the day before.” “I think I knew--before--perhaps because I am a woman. It made my heart ache.” “But she is not unhappy now,” said Kent. “Therefore you ought to be glad.” Winifred glanced at him swiftly. In spite of the brown softness of her eyes they were woman's eyes, capable of quick, subtle perceptions. “But will she be happy, Kent?” she asked, bending down over her needlework. As she had not been able to paint, she had taken in hand, by way of feminine comfort, some sewing for Clytie. “What do you mean?” he asked, with a man's preference to answer a concrete question rather than a delicately hinted suggestion. “Will not this tie that cannot be loosed hamper her all through her life?”