The first indication those men had that Mr. Harbison didn’t know the state of affairs was when he turned and faced them.

“Mrs. Wilson is quite right,” he said gravely.  “We’re a selfish lot.  If Miss Caruthers is a responsibility, let us share her.”

“To arms!” Jim said, with an affectation of lightness, as they put their glasses down, and threw open the door.  Dal’s retort, “Whose?” was lost in the confusion, and we went into the library.  On the way Dallas managed to speak to me.

“If Harbison doesn’t know, don’t tell him,” he said in an undertone.  “He’s a queer duck, in some ways; he mightn’t think it funny.”

“Funny,” I choked.  “It’s the least funny thing I ever experienced.  Deceiving that Harbison man isn’t so bad—­he thinks me crazy, anyhow.  He’s been staring his eyes out at me—­”

“I don’t wonder.  You’re really lovely tonight, Kit, and you look like a vixen.”

“But to deceive that harmless old lady—­well, thank goodness, it’s nine, and she leaves in an hour or so.”

But she didn’t and that’s the story.

Chapter IV.  THE DOOR WAS CLOSED

It was infuriating to see how much enjoyment every one but Jim and myself got out of the situation.  They howled with mirth over the feeblest jokes, and when Max told a story without any point whatever, they all had hysteria.  Immediately after dinner Aunt Selina had begun on the family connection again, and after two bad breaks on my part, Jim offered to show her the house.  The Mercer girls trailed along, unwilling to lose any of the possibilities.  They said afterward that it was terrible:  she went into all the closets, and ran her hand over the tops of doors and kept getting grimmer and grimmer.  In the studio they came across a life study Jim was doing and she shut her eyes and made the girls go out while he covered it with a drapery.  Lollie!  Who did the Bacchante dance at three benefits last winter and was learning a new one called “Eve”!

When they heard Aunt Selina on the second floor, Anne, Dal and Max sneaked up to the studio for cigarettes, which left Mr. Harbison to me.  I was in the den, sitting in a low chair by the wood fire when he came in.  He hesitated in the doorway.

“Would you prefer being alone, or may I come in?” he asked.  “Don’t mind being frank.  I know you are tired.”

“I have a headache, and I am sulking,” I said unpleasantly, “but at least I am not actively venomous.  Come in.”

So he came in and sat down across the hearth from me, and neither of us said anything.  The firelight flickered over the room, bringing out the faded hues of the old Japanese prints on the walls, gleaming in the mother-of-pearl eyes of the dragon on the screen, setting a grotesque god on a cabinet to nodding.  And it threw into relief the strong profile of the man across from me, as he stared at the fire.