He seemed to feel that he had begun a conversation the support of which had now become the pleasurable duty of other parties; and he sat expectantly, looking first at his sister, then at Lamhorn, as if implying that it was their turn to speak.  Edith returned his gaze with a mixture of astonishment and increasing anger, while Mr. Lamhorn was obviously disturbed, though Bibbs had been as considerate as possible in presenting the weather as a topic.  Bibbs had perceived that Lamhorn had nothing in his mind at any time except “personalities”—­he could talk about people and he could make love.  Bibbs, wishing to be courteous, offered the weather.

Lamhorn refused it, and concluded from Bibbs’s luxurious attitude in the leather chair that this half-crazy brother was a permanent fixture for the rest of the evening.  There was not reason to hope that he would move, and Lamhorn found himself in danger of looking silly.

“I was just going,” he said, rising.

“Oh no!” Edith cried, sharply.

“Yes.  Good night!  I think I—­”

“Too bad,” said Bibbs, genially, walking to the door with the visitor, while Edith stood staring as the two disappeared in the hall.  She heard Bibbs offering to “help” Lamhorn with his overcoat and the latter rather curtly declining assistance, these episodes of departure being followed by the closing of the outer door.  She ran into the hall.

“What’s the matter with you?” she cried, furiously.  “What do you mean?  How did you dare come in there when you knew—­”

Her voice broke; she made a gesture of rage and despair, and ran up the stairs, sobbing.  She fled to her mother’s room, and when Bibbs came up, a few minutes later, Mrs. Sheridan met him at his door.

“Oh, Bibbs,” she said, shaking her head woefully, “you’d oughtn’t to distress your sister!  She says you drove that young man right out of the house.  You’d ought to been more considerate.”

Bibbs smiled faintly, noting that Edith’s door was open, with Edith’s naive shadow motionless across its threshold.  “Yes,” he said.  “He doesn’t appear to be much of a ‘man’s man.’  He ran at just a glimpse of one.”

Edith’s shadow moved; her voice came quavering:  “You call yourself one?”

“No, no,” he answered.  “I said, ‘just a glimpse of one.’  I didn’t claim—­” But her door slammed angrily; and he turned to his mother.

“There,” he said, sighing.  “That’s almost the first time in my life I ever tried to be a man of action, mother, and I succeeded perfectly in what I tried to do.  As a consequence I feel like a horse-thief!”

“You hurt her feelin’s,” she groaned.  “You must ‘a’ gone at it too rough, Bibbs.”

He looked upon her wanly.  “That’s my trouble, mother,” he murmured.  “I’m a plain, blunt fellow.  I have rough ways, and I’m a rough man.”

For once she perceived some meaning in his queerness.  “Hush your nonsense!” she said, good-naturedly, the astral of a troubled smile appearing.  “You go to bed.”