arded it. It hung
limp and dejected on the back of his chair. Past K.'s profile Sidney
could see the magnolia tree shaped like a heart.

"It seems to me," said Sidney suddenly, "that you are kind to every one
but me, K."

He fairly stammered his astonishment:--

"Why, what on earth have I done?"

"You are trying to make me marry Max, aren't you?"

She was very properly ashamed of that, and, when he failed of reply out
of sheer inability to think of one that would not say too much, she went
hastily to something else:

"It is hard for me to realize that you--that you lived a life of your
own, a busy life, doing useful things, before you came to us. I wish you
would tell me something about yourself. If we're to be friends when you
go away,"--she had to stop there, for the lump in her throat--"I'll want
to know how to think of you,--who your friends are,--all that."

He made an effort. He was thinking, of course, that he would be
visualizing her, in the hospital, in the little house on its side
street, as she looked just then, her eyes like stars, her lips just
parted, her hands folded before her on the table.

"I shall be working," he said at last. "So will you."

"Does that mean you won't have time to think of me?"

"I'm afraid I'm stupider than usual to-night. You can think of me as
never forgetting you or the Street, working or playing."

Playing! Of course he would not work all the time. And he was going back
to his old friends, to people who had always known him, to girls--

He did his best then. He told her of the old family house, built by one
of his forebears who had been a king's man until Washington had put the
case for the colonies, and who had given himself and his oldest son then
to the cause that he made his own. He told of old servants who had wept
when he decided to close the house and go away. When she fell silent, he
thought he was interesting her. He told her the family traditions that
had been the fairy tales of his childhood. He described the library, the
choice room of the house, full of family paintings in old gilt frames,
and of his father's collection of books. Because it was home, he waxed
warm over it at last, although it had rather hurt him at first to
remember. It brought back the other things that he wanted to forget.

But a terrible thing was happening to Sidney. Side by side with the
wonders he described so casually, she was placing the little house. What
an exile it must have