When Lynda was ushered now into the library from the cold, outer hall it was like finding comfort and luxury in the midst of desolation.  The opening door had not roused the man by the great open fire.  He seemed lost in a gloomy revery and Lynda had time to note, unobserved, the tragic, pain-racked face and the pitifully thin outlines of the figure stretched on the invalid chair and covered by a rug of rare silver fox.

There were birds in gilded cages by the large south window—­mute little mites they were; they rarely if ever sang but they were alive!  There were plants, too, luxuriously growing in pots and boxes—­but not a flower on one!  They existed, not joyously, but persistently.  A Russian hound, white as snow, lay before the fire; his soft, mournful eyes were fixed upon Lynda, but he did not stir or announce the intrusion.  A cat and two kittens, also white, were rolled like snowballs on a crimson cushion near the hearth; Lynda wondered whether they ever played.  Alone, like a dead thing amid the still life, William Truedale, helpless—­death ever creeping nearer and nearer to his bitter heart—­passed his weary days.

As she stood, watching and waiting, Lynda Kendall’s eyes filled with quick tears.  The weeks of her absence had emphasized every tragic detail of the room and the man.  He had probably missed her terribly from his bare life, but he had made no sign, given no call.

“Uncle William!”

Truedale turned his head and fixed his deep-sunk, brilliant eyes upon her.

“Oh!  So you’ve thought better of it?” was all that he said.

“Yes, I’ve thought better of it.  Will you let me stay to dinner?”

“Take off your wraps.  There now! draw up the ottoman; so long as you have a spine, rely upon it.  Never lounge if you can help it.”

Lynda drew the low, velvet-covered stool near the couch-chair; the hound raised his sharp, beautiful head and nestled against her knee.  Truedale watched it—­animals never came to him unless commanded—­why did they go to Lynda?  Probably for the same reason that he clung to her, watched for her and feared, with sickening fear, that she might never come again!

“I suppose, since Con’s death isn’t on my head, you felt that you could forgive me, eh?”

“Well, something like that, Uncle William.”

“What business is it of yours what I do with my money—­or my nephew?”

These two never approached each other by conventional lines.  Their absences were periods in which to store vital topics and questions—­their meetings were a series of explosive outbursts.

“None of my business, Uncle William, but if I could not approve, why—­”

“Approve!  Huh!  Who are you that you should judge, approve, or disapprove your elders?”

There was no answer to this.  Lynda wanted to laugh, but feared she might cry.  The hard, indignant words belied the quivering gladness of the voice that greeted her in every tone with its relief and surrender.