“Lynda, when did you break your engagement to John Morrell?”

The girl started, but she did not change her position.  She never lied or prevaricated to Truedale—­she might keep her own counsel, but when she spoke it was simple truth.

“About six months ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There was nothing to tell, Uncle William.”

“There was the fact, wasn’t there?”

“Oh! yes, the fact.”

“Why did you do it?”

“That—­is—­a long story.”  Lynda looked up, now, and smiled the rare smile that only the stricken man understood.  Appeal, confusion, and detachment marked it.  She longed, helplessly, for sympathy and understanding.

“Well, long stories are welcome enough here, child; especially after the dearth of them.  Ring the bell; let’s have dinner.  Pull down the shades and” (Truedale gave a wide gesture) “put the live stock out!  An early meal, a long evening—­what better could we add than a couple of long stories?”

In the doing of what Truedale commanded, Lynda found a certain relief.  These visits were like grim plays, to be sure, but they were also sacred duties.  This one, after the lapse of time filled with new and strange emotions, was a bit grimmer than usual, but it had the effect of a tonic upon the ragged nerves of the two actors.

The round table was set by the fire—­it was the manservant who attended now; silver and glass and linen were perfect, and the simple fare carefully chosen and prepared.

Truedale was never so much at his ease as when he presided at these small dinners.  He ate little; he chose the rarest bits for his guest; he talked lightly—­sometimes delightfully.  At such moments Lynda realized what he must have been before love and health failed him.

To-night—­shut away from all else, the strain of the past weeks ignored, the long stories deliberately pushed aside—­Truedale spoke of the books he had been reading; Lynda, of her work.

“I have two wonderful houses to do,” she said, poising a morsel of food gracefully.  “One is for a couple recently made rich; they do not dare to move for fear of going wrong.  I have that place from garret to cellar.  It’s an awful responsibility—­but lots of fun!”

“It must be.  Spending other people’s money and making them as good as new at the same time, must be rare sport.  And the other contract?”

“Oh! that is another matter.”  Lynda leaned back and laughed.  “I’m toning up an old house.  Putting false fronts on, a bit of rouge, filling in wrinkles; in short, giving a side-tracked old lady something to interest her.  She doesn’t know it, but I’m letting her do the work, and she’s very happy.  She has a kind of rusty good taste.  I’m polishing it without hurting her.  The living room!  Why, Uncle William, it is a picture.  It is a tender dream come true.”

“And you are charging for that, you pirate?”