n of
some merriment, and the two diverted themselves with ordering a wild
assortment of dishes. The supper hour had passed, the dining-room had
been closed, and they were sitting at their dessert when a late comer
entered the room. Gertrude touched her aunt's arm--Glover was passing.

Mrs. Whitney's first impulse was to halt the silent engineer with one
of her imperative words. To think of him was to think only of his
easily approachable manner; but to see him was indistinctly to recall
something of a dignity of simplicity. She contented herself with a
whisper. "He doesn't see us."

At the lower end of the room Glover sat down. Almost at once Gertrude
became conscious of the silence. She handled her fork noiselessly, and
the interval before a waitress pushed open the swinging kitchen door to
take his order seemed long. The Eastern girl watched narrowly until
the waitress flounced out, and Glover, shifting his knife and his fork
and his glass of water, spread his limp napkin across his lap, and
resting his elbow on the table supported his head on his hand.

The surroundings had never looked so bare as then, and a sense of the
loneliness of the shabby furnishings filled her. The ghastliness of
the arc-lights, the forbidding whiteness of the walls, and the
penetrating odors of the kitchen seemed all brought out by the presence
of a man alone.

Mrs. Whitney continued to jest, but Gertrude responded mechanically.
Glover was eating his supper when the two rose from their table, and
Mrs. Whitney led the way toward him.

"So, this is the invalid," she said, halting abruptly before him.
"Mrs. Whitney!" exclaimed Glover, trying hastily to rise as he caught
sight of Gertrude.

"Will you please be seated?" commanded Mrs. Whitney. "I insist----"

He sat down. "We want only to remind you," she went on, "that we hate
to be completely ignored by the engineering department even when _not_
officially in its charge."

"But, Mrs. Whitney, I can't sit if you are to stand," he answered,
greeting Gertrude and her aunt together.

"You are an invalid; be seated. Nothing but toast?" objected Mrs.
Whitney, drawing out a chair and sitting down. "Do you expect to mend
broken ribs on toast?"

"I'm well mended, thank you. Do I look like an invalid?"

"But we heard you were seriously hurt." He laughed. "And want to
suggest Glen Tarn as a health resort."

"Unfortunately, the doctor has discharged me. In fact, a broken ri