She stood there quite still and white, looking straight up into his face.  The exquisite smoothness of her little cool chin photographed itself upon his memory.  As he bent down closer to the grave and tender lips, he was suddenly, unaccountably frightened and ashamed.  His hand dropped, sought for her small limp hand.  His lips shifted from their course and went lower, just brushing her fingers.

“I beg your pardon,” he said confusedly.  He was painfully embarrassed, stammered, “I—­I wanted to thank you.  Good-bye...”

She said good-bye in the smallest sweet voice he had ever heard.  It followed his memory like some weary, pitiful little ghost.

CHAPTER XI

IN THE PUBLIC EYE

No sight more familiar to the corner of Main and Resident Streets than that of Sylvester Hudson’s Ford car sliding up to the curb in front of his hotel at two o’clock in a summer afternoon.  He would slip out from under his steering-wheel, his linen duster flapping about his long legs, and he would stalk through the rocking, meditative observers on the piazza and through the lobby past Dickie’s frozen stare, upstairs to the door of Miss Arundel’s “suite.”  There he was bidden to come in.  A few minutes later they would come down together, Sheila, too, passing Dickie wordlessly, and they would hum away from Millings leaving a veil of golden dust to smother the comments in their wake.  There were days when Sheila’s pony, a gift from Jim Greely, was led up earlier than the hour of Hudson’s arrival, on which days Sheila, in a short skirt and a boy’s shirt and a small felt Stetson, would ride away alone toward the mountain of her dreams.  Sometimes Jim rode with her.  It was not always possible to forbid him.

The day after Cosme Hilliard’s spectacular passage was one of Hudson’s days.  The pony did not appear, but Sylvester did and came down with his prize.  The lobby was crowded.  Sheila threaded her way amongst the medley of tourists, paused and deliberately drew near to the desk.  At sight of her Dickie’s whiteness dyed itself scarlet.  He rose and with an apparent effort lifted his eyes to her look.

They did not smile at each other.  Sheila spoke sharply, each word a little soft lash.

“I want to speak to you.  Will you come to my sitting-room when I get back?”

“Yes’m,” said Dickie.  It was the tone of an unwincing pride.  Under the desk, hidden from sight, his hand was a white-knuckled fist.

Sheila passed on, trailed by Hudson, who was smiling not agreeably to himself.  Over the smile he gave his son a cruel look.  It was as though an enemy had said, “Hurts you, doesn’t it?” Dickie returned the look with level eyes.

The rockers on the piazza stopped rocking, stopped talking, stopped breathing, it would seem, to watch Sylvester help Sheila into his car; not that he helped her greatly—­she had an appearance of melting through his hands and getting into her place beside his by a sort of sleight of body.  He made a series of angular movements, smiled at her, and started the car.