ictoria, leaning back, exquisitely passive, in one of the big,
shabby arm-chairs, raised a protesting hand. "My dear Elliott,
you don't do your chosen abiding-place justice. There is the new
Court-House. Nobody can deny that that is a sight. I spent a long time
the other day contemplating it. That and the Masonic Building are a
_pair_ of sights. I conceive Rollins, who professes to be interested
in architecture, as constantly vibrating between the two."

To which handsome tribute to La Chance's high-lights, Professor
Marshall returned with bitterness, "Good Lord, Vic, why do you come,
then?"

She answered pleasantly, "I might ask in my turn why you stay." She
went on, "I might also remind you that you and your children are the
only human ties I have." She slipped a soft arm about Sylvia as she
spoke, and turned the vivid, flower-like little face to be kissed.
When Aunt Victoria kissed her, Sylvia always felt that she had, like
Diana in the story-book, stooped radiant from a shining cloud.

There was a pause in the conversation. Professor Marshall faced the
piano again and precipitated himself headlong into the diabolic
accelerandos of "The Hall of the Mountain-King." His sister listened
with extreme and admiring appreciation of his talent. "Upon my word,
Elliott," she said heartily, "under the circumstances it's incredible,
but it's true--your touch positively improves."

He stopped short, and addressed the air above the piano with
passionate conviction. "I stay because, thanks to my wife, I've
savored here fourteen years of more complete reconciliation with
life--I've been vouchsafed more usefulness--I've discovered more
substantial reasons for existing than I ever dreamed possible in the
old life--than any one in that world can conceive!"

Aunt Victoria looked down at her beautiful hands clasped in her lap.
"Yes, quite so," she breathed. "Any one who knows you well must agree
that whatever you are, or do, or find, nowadays, is certainly 'thanks
to your wife.'"

Her brother flashed a furious look at her, and was about to speak,
but catching sight of Sylvia's troubled little face turned to him
anxiously, gave only an impatient shake to his ruddy head--now graying
slightly. A little later he said: "Oh, we don't speak the same
language any more, Victoria. I couldn't make you understand--you don't
know--how should you? You can't conceive how, when one is really
_living_, nothing of all that matters. What does archit