did them now? But she was just as thoughtful of him as she was
of Philip. "Of course, idiot," he muttered, "she pities you; you poor,
abandoned, blind man, you are to be cared for, don't you see?" He strove
to shake himself into a different mood by self-ridicule. Was this the
philosopher who made life a matter of calm acceptance of circumstances
which he knew to be his master? He laughed at himself, but the laugh was
bitter, and he knew that he was not willing to accept this particular
turn of circumstances.

But what right had he to judge what she did? She was not his wife nor
the woman who would be his wife. She could never be his wife. There was
her husband. No, it was not her husband that counted, but Philip!
Suddenly Lawrence realized the point that he had reached.

He loved Claire Barkley.

The admission of that at last in frank, utter avowal set him dreaming of
the joys she might have been to him. He thought of a thousand little
intimacies, cares, thoughtfulnesses, that she might have given him and
received from him, and they were all made vital, real, by the now ardent
memory of her in his arms, of the hands he had held in his own so often
of late in the open.

In the afternoon he grew disgusted with himself. He had moped all day in
his chair, moving only to replenish the fire or get a cigarette, and he
now shook himself vigorously free from his thoughts. "You love her, yes,
and she obviously does not love you," he told himself. "Why, then, make
the best of it, if you can't do better, and at least don't be a beast in
your treatment of your host when he comes back to his own hearth."

With that he dragged out a block of wood, took his knife, and went to
work. As was his way, he was soon unconscious of everything but the
piece of wood beneath his hand. He had never done wood-carving before,
and he was learning the technique that made it very different from clay.
He had gone at this piece without any special intent and was shaping it
into a cherub merely out of whim, but he was giving to the task every
atom of his skill, and his hands worked with every nerve strained to
detect and keep line and proportion.

Swiftly under his knife the child's body grew in shape, and he caressed
the rough form tenderly. He would polish it later, and then what
pleasure it would represent! It would make a great decoration for the
cabin--for her cabin. He winced--yes, for hers and Philip's cabin.
"Fool!" he ejaculated. "Forget it