women—­longing to come home—­wondering why they did not come for her and take her away... dear child!  How cruel Phil was!  She crouched nearer the fire, her eyes devouring it—­her thoughts crowding on the darkness.  Those terrible men had been silent seven weeks—­more than seven—­desperate weeks... not a word out of the darkness—­and she could not cry out to them—­perhaps they would not tap the wires again!  The thought confronted her and she sprang up and walked wildly, her pulses beating in her temples....  She stopped by a table and looked down.  A little vial lay there, and the medicine dropper and wine glass—­waiting.  She turned her head uneasily and moved away.  She must save it for the night—­for the dark hours that never passed.  But she must think of something!  She glanced about her, and rang the bell sharply, and waited.

“I want the Greek boy,” she said, “send him to me!”

“Yes, madame.”  Marie’s voice hurried itself away... and Alcibiades stood in the doorway, looking in.

The woman turned to him—­a little comfort shining in the sleepless eyes.  “Come in,” she said, “I want to talk to you—­tell me about Athens—­the sun shines there!” She glanced again at the hearth and shivered.

The boy came in, flashing a gleam through the dark day.  The little sadness of the night before had gone.  He was alive and lithe and happy.  He came over to her, smiling... and she looked at him curiously.  “What have you been doing all day?” she asked.

“I play,” said Alcibiades, “I play—­on flute—­” His fingers made little music gestures at his lips, and fell away.  “And I—­run—­” he said, “I go in rain—­and run—­and come in.”  He shook his dark head.  Little gleams of moisture shone from it.  The earth seemed to breathe about him.

She drew a quick breath.  “You shall tell me,” she said, “but not here.”  She glanced about the room filled with sickness and wild thoughts—­not even the boy’s presence dispelled them.  “We will go away somewhere—­to the gallery,” she said quickly, “it is lighter there and I have not been there—­for weeks.”  Her voice dropped a little.

The boy followed her through the hall, across a covered way, to the gallery that held the gems—­and the refuse—­that Philip Harris had gathered up from the world.  She looked about her with a proud, imperious gesture.  She knew—­better now than when the pictures were purchased—­which ones were good, and which were very bad; but she could not interfere with the gallery.  It was Philip’s own place in the house.  It had been his fancy—­to buy pictures—­when the money came pouring in faster than they could spend it—­and the gallery was his own private venture—­his gymnasium in culture!  She smiled a little.  Over there, a great canvas had been taken down and carted off to make room for the little Monticelli in its place.  He was learning—­yes!  But she could not bring guests to the gallery when they came to Idlewood for the day.  If he would only let a connoisseur go through the place and pick out the best ones—­the gallery was not so bad!  She looked about her with curious, tolerant smile.