When Winifred had gone, Kent went with Clytie into the sitting-room, where, furnished with hammer and nails, he hung the few pictures that Clytie had brought with her, together with some that had been lying about the studio. It was a delight to him to perform this little service for her, and she too felt the woman's happiness of being surrendered to a man's helpfulness. He fetched from his own rooms a bookstand, which he secured against the wall, a few curios, and an armful of the dainty cushions, chair backs, and curtain sashes with which his sister Agatha in misguided zeal had years ago supplied his drawers and cupboards. “They are not as artistic as your odds and ends, you know,” he said by way of apology. “But until you can get some together they will be more cheerful to look at than Mrs. Gurkins's efforts.” He had just completed his scheme of decoration when Mrs. Gurkins came up to lay the cloth for Clytie's dinner. Clytie detained him as he was about to go. “Won't you stay and dine with me?” she said half timidly. She felt that she could not dismiss him. To do so on conventional grounds would be the silliest prudery. Besides, a sense of helplessness had come over her, and she wanted him by her side, longed for him to think and act for her. The touch of any incident bordering ever so slightly on the dramatic would at that moment have sufficed to free the spring of feminine reserve and loosen passionate expression of her longing for his presence. But the simple commonplace of the situation saved her. Kent's eyes brightened at the invitation. “And we can have a long evening afterwards?” he asked half pleadingly. “Of course,” said Clytie, with an inward smile. On Monday morning Kent, as he was starting for the Museum, put his head in at Clytie's sitting-room door. She was at breakfast, having risen rather later than usual. By her side was an open letter. As Kent entered she pushed back her chair and looked up at him, a gleam of gladness eclipsing in her eyes a late expression of pain. Kent noticed the sudden change. “You have been sad, Clytie,” he said in his rough tenderness. “That is not right. Did you not promise me last evening that you would be happy, very happy?” “So I shall be,” she answered, taking his hand in hers and turning away her head. “Only there are things that cut one to the heart. You are a man; you can't understand a woman--no man can, no matter how he loves her. Look, read that--the end of the sordid story of my latter life. Oh, Kent, I am not worth your love! This thing has degraded me enough, and this last insult----Oh, read it and see. It would be better that you should know of how little account I really am.” Kent took the letter which she thrust into his hand, and, without having read it, tore it into tiny pieces which he scattered through the open window to the four winds. Then he came and put one arm around her.