He drew a chair near the lamp and lighted a cigarette, and for a time we were silent.  I was in the shadow, and I sat back and watched him.  It was not surprising, I thought, that she cared for him:  women had always loved him, perhaps because he always loved them.  There was no disloyalty in the thought:  it was the lad’s nature to give and crave affection.  Only—­I was different.  I had never really cared about a girl before, and my life had been singularly loveless.  I had fought a lonely battle always.  Once before, in college, we had both laid ourselves and our callow devotions at the feet of the same girl.  Her name was Dorothy—­I had forgotten the rest—­but I remembered the sequel.  In a spirit of quixotic youth I had relinquished my claim in favor of Richey and had gone cheerfully on my way, elevated by my heroic sacrifice to a somber, white-hot martyrdom.  As is often the case, McKnight’s first words showed our parallel lines of thought.

“I say, Lollie,” he asked, “do you remember Dorothy Browne?” Browne, that was it!

“Dorothy Browne?” I repeated.  “Oh—­why yes, I recall her now.  Why?”

“Nothing,” he said.  “I was thinking about her.  That’s all.  You remember you were crazy about her, and dropped back because she preferred me.”

“I got out,” I said with dignity, “because you declared you would shoot yourself if she didn’t go with you to something or other!”

“Oh, why yes, I recall now!” he mimicked.  He tossed his cigarette in the general direction of the hearth and got up.  We were both a little conscious, and he stood with his back to me, fingering a Japanese vase on the mantel.

“I was thinking,” he began, turning the vase around, “that, if you feel pretty well again, and—­and ready to take hold, that I should like to go away for a week or so.  Things are fairly well cleaned up at the office.”

“Do you mean—­you are going to Richmond?” I asked, after a scarcely perceptible pause.  He turned and faced me, with his hands thrust in his pockets.

“No.  That’s off, Lollie.  The Sieberts are going for a week’s cruise along the coast.  I—­the hot weather has played hob with me and the cruise means seven days’ breeze and bridge.”

I lighted a cigarette and offered him the box, but he refused.  He was looking haggard and suddenly tired.  I could not think of anything to say, and neither could he, evidently.  The matter between us lay too deep for speech.

“How’s Candida?” he asked.

“Martin says a month, and she will be all right,” I returned, in the same tone.  He picked up his hat, but he had something more to say.  He blurted it out, finally, half way to the door.

“The Seiberts are not going for a couple of days,” he said, “and if you want a day or so off to go down to Richmond yourself—­”

“Perhaps I shall,” I returned, as indifferently as I could.  “Not going yet, are you?”