Crocker’s eyes flashed.  “There’s a lot we might do about it if you will, Emma.  Damn the St. Michael.  If his case is so complicated, and I don’t see it, leave him out of the reckoning between us.  Can’t you see what I need and want?”

“They wouldn’t see it, and I’m shamefully afraid of them,” she said simply, and then she added indignantly, “How could you dare, to-day?  I can’t trust you for any perception, can I?”

Not perceiving that her scruple was belated, Crocker blurted out ruefully.  “I’m an ass, and I’m sorry and I’m not.  It’s what I have wanted to say these many days, and perhaps it might as well be so.  But I’ve wounded you and for that I’m more than sorry.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Emma said gently.  “Of course I’ll forgive an old friend for saying a little more than he should.  Only you must stop here.  You’ll forgive me, too, for owning your St. Michael.  I’m honestly sorry it happened so.  I would dismiss him if I could, for he is likely to cost me a good friend.  But he creates a kind of impossibility between us, doesn’t he, and for a while it’s best you shouldn’t come, not till things change with you.  It’s kindest so, isn’t it, Crocker?”

There was more debate to this effect before the impassive St. Michael, until at last Crocker agreed impatiently, “You’re right, Emma, or at least you have me at a disadvantage, which comes to the same thing.  And yet it’s all wrong.  You are putting a painted saint between yourself and a friend who wants to be more.  It’s logical, but it isn’t human.  As for their talk, they’ll talk, anyhow, and we might as well stand it together.  I’m probably off for a long time, Emma.  I hope you’ll find your St. Michael companionable.  When you decide to throw him out of the window, let me know.  Forgive me again.  Good-by.”  She gave him her hand silently and followed him out into the loggia.  As she watched him striding angrily down the valley and away, she had the air of a woman who would have cried if she were not Emma Verplanck.

* * * * *

Crocker was right, we all did talk.  And naturally, for had we not all been eagerly awaiting the collision announced by the cessation of his visits and the rumour that he was bound north.  In council on Dennis’s terrace, however, we came to no unanimous reading of the affair.  Generally, we felt that even if Emma wanted a way out, which we guessed to be the fact, she would never expose herself to our batteries, and with regret we opined that there was no way, had we wished, to divest ourselves of our collective formidableness.  On all sides we divined a deadlock, with Dennis the only dissenting voice.  He insisted scornfully that we none of us knew Emma, that we underestimated both her emotional capacity and her resourcefulness, and, finally, in a burst of rash clairvoyancy he declared that she would give away both the St. Michael and herself, but in her own time and manner, and with some odd personal reservation that would content us all.  We should see.