was ready to ascend again. This
protected him; for he was a tall, dark-haired fellow whose features had
the clear-cut gravity of an Indian chieftain; his rare, friendly smile
was a delight. So he would hardly otherwise have escaped.

Perhaps once a week it was his habit to drop in after dinner and share
with me three or four pipes' worth of desultory conversation. We seldom
talked shop; since mine did not interest him, nor his me. Mostly we just
ambled aimlessly round the outskirts of some chance neutral topic--who
would win the big game, for example. It amused neither of us, but it
rested us both.

One night, perhaps a month after Susan had come to me, I returned late
from a hot day's trip to New York--one more unsuccessful quest after
Hypatia Rediviva--and found Phil and Susan sitting together on the
screened terrace at the back of my house, overlooking the garden. It was
not my custom to spend the muggy midsummer months in town, but this year
I had been unwilling to leave until I could capture and carry off
Hypatia Rediviva with me. Moreover, I did not know where to go. The
cottage at Watch Hill belonged to Gertrude, and was in consequence no
longer used by either of us. As a grass widower I had, in summer, just
travelled about. Now, with a ward of fourteen to care for, just
travelling about no longer seemed the easiest solution; yet I hated
camps and summer hotels. I should have to rent a place somewhere, that
was certain; but where? With the world to choose from, a choice proved
difficult. I was marking time.

My stuffy fruitless trip had decided me to mark time no longer. Hypatia
or no Hypatia, Susan must be taken to the hills or the sea. It was this
thought that simmered in my brain as I strolled out to the garden
terrace and overheard Susan say to Phil: "But I think it's _much_ easier
to believe in the devil than it is in God! Don't you? The devil isn't
all-wise, all-good, all-everything! He's a lot more like _us_."

I stopped short and shamelessly listened.

"That's an interesting concept," responded Phil, with his slow, friendly
gravity. "You mean, I suppose, that if we must be anthropomorphic, we
ought at least to be consistent."

"Wouldn't it be funny," said Susan, "if I did mean that without knowing
it?" There was no flippancy, no irony in her tone.
"'_An-thro-po-mor-phic_ ... '" she added, savoring its
long-drawn-outness. Susan never missed a strange word; she always
pounced on it at once, unerringl