“She’ll run like a scared hearse-horse,” said young Grandcourt gloomily.  There was reason for his gloom.  Unknown to his father he had invested heavily in Dysart’s schemes.  It was his father’s contempt that he feared more than ruin.

So Dysart had gone to town, leaving behind him the utter indifference of a wife, the deep contempt of a man; and a white-faced girl alone with her memories—­whatever they might be—­and her thoughts, which were painful if one might judge by her silent, rigid abstraction, and the lower lip which, at moments, escaped, quivering, from the close-set teeth.

When Duane rose, folding his paper with a carelessly pleasant word or two, she looked up in a kind of naive terror—­like a child startled at prospect of being left alone.  It was curious how those adrift seemed always to glide his way.  It had always been so; even stray cats followed him in the streets; unhappy dogs trotted persistently at his heels; many a journey had he made to the Bide-a-wee for some lost creature’s sake; many a softly purring cat had he caressed on his way through life—­many a woman.

As he strolled toward the eastern end of the terrace, Sylvia looked after him; and, suddenly, unable to endure isolation, she rose and followed as instinctively as her lesser sisters-errant.

It was the trotting of little footsteps behind him on the gravel that arrested him.  A glance at her face was enough; vexed, shocked, yet every sympathy instantly aroused, he resigned himself to whatever might be required of him; and within him a bitter mirth stirred—­acrid, unpleasant; but his smile indicated only charmed surprise.

“I didn’t suppose you’d care for a stroll with me,” he said; “it is exceedingly nice of you to give me the chance.”

“I didn’t want to be left alone,” she said.

“It is rather quiet here since our gay birds have migrated,” he said in a matter-of-fact way.  “Which direction shall we take?”

“I—­don’t care.”

“The woods?”

“No,” with a shudder so involuntary that he noticed it.

“Well, then, we’ll go cross country——­”

She looked at her thin, low shoes and then at him.

“Certainly,” he said, “that won’t do, will it?”

She shook her head.

They were passing the Lodge now where his studio was and where he had intended to pack up his canvases that afternoon.

“I’ll brew you a cup of tea if you like,” he said; “that is, if it’s not too unconventional to frighten you.”

She smiled and nodded.  Behind the smile her heavy thoughts throbbed on:  How much did this man know?  How much did he suspect?  And if he suspected, how good he was in every word to her—­how kind and gentle and high-minded!  And the anguish in her smile caused him to turn hastily to the door and summon old Miller to bring the tea paraphernalia.

There was nothing to look at in the studio; all the canvases lay roped in piles ready for the crates; but Sylvia’s gaze remained on them as though even the rough backs of the stretchers fascinated her.