k to her; besides, he had not finished his Study of
the Unknown Girl. He returned, then, to the last thread which she had
left hanging.

"So you too are glad to be at home!" he said. "I'm so glad that I don't
want to lose sight either of a skyscraper or of apple trees for years
and years. I can't remember when I've ever wanted to stay in one place
before."

She laughed--the first full laugh he had heard from her. It was low and
deep and bubbling, like water flowing from a long-necked bottle.

"Just a moment ago, we were confessing that we were crazy for the
Orient."

"I'm glad to be caught in an inconsistency!" he answered. "I've been
afraid, though, that this desire to roost in one place was a sign of
incipient old age."

She looked at him directly, and for a moment her fearless glance played
over him, as in alarm.

"Oh, I shouldn't be afraid of _that_," she said. "I don't know your
age, of course, but if it will reassure you any, I'd put it at
twenty-eight. And that, according to Peter Ibbertson, is quite the
nicest age." Her face, with its unyouthful capacity for sudden
seriousness, grew grave. Her deep blue eyes gazed past him out of the
window.

"I'm only twenty-four, but I know what it is to think that middle age
is near--to dread it--especially when I half suspect I haven't spent
the interest on my youth." She stopped.

Dr. Blake held his very breath. His instincts warned him that she
faltered at one of those instincts when confidence lies close to the
lips. But she did not give it. Instead, she caught herself up with a
perfunctory, "I suppose everyone feels that way at times."

Although he wanted that confidence, he was clever enough not to reach
for it at this point. Instead, he took a wide detour, and returned
slowly, backing and filling to the point. But every time that he
approached a closer intimacy, she veered away with an adroitness which
was consummate art or consummate innocence. His first impression
grew--that she "did" something. She had mentioned "Peter Ibbertson." He
spoke, then, of books. She had read much, especially fiction; but she
treated books as one who does not write. He talked art. Though she
spoke with originality and understanding in response to his second-hand
studio chatter, he could see that she neither painted nor associated
much with those who did. Besides, her hands had none of the
craftswoman's muscle. Of music--beyond ragtime--she knew as little as
he. He invaded busi