the tea paraphernalia.

There was nothing to look at in the studio; all the canvases lay roped
in piles ready for the crates; but Sylvia's gaze remained on them as
though even the rough backs of the stretchers fascinated her.

"My father was an artist. After he married he did not paint. My mother
was very wealthy, you know.... It seems a pity."

"What? Wealth?" he asked, smiling.

"N-no. I mean it seems a little tragic to me that father never continued
to paint."

Miller's granddaughter came in with the tea. She was a very little girl
with yellow hair and big violet eyes. After she had deposited
everything, she went over to Duane and held up her mouth to be kissed.
He laughed and saluted her. It was a reward for service which she had
suggested when he first came to Roya-Neh; and she trotted away in great
content.

Sylvia's indifferent gaze followed her; then she sipped the tea Duane
offered.

"Do you remember your father?" he asked pleasantly.

"Why, yes. I was fourteen when he died. I remember mother, too. I was
seven."

Duane said, not looking at her: "It's about the toughest thing that can
happen to a girl. It's tough enough on a boy."

"It was very hard," she said simply.

"Haven't you any relatives except your brother Stuyvesant--" he began,
and checked himself, remembering that a youthful aunt of hers had eloped
under scandalous circumstances, and at least one uncle was too notorious
even for the stomachs of the society that whelped him.

She let it pass in silence, as though she had not heard. Later she
declined more tea and sat deep in her chair, fingers linked under her
chin, lids lowered.

After a while, as she did not move or speak, he ventured to busy himself
with collecting his brushes, odds and ends of studio equipment. He
scraped several palettes, scrubbed up some palette-knives, screwed the
tops on a dozen tubes of colour, and fussed and messed about until there
seemed to be nothing further to do. So he came back and seated himself,
and, looking up, saw the big tears stealing from under her closed lids.

He endured it as long as he could. Nothing was said. He leaned nearer
and laid his hand over hers; and at the contact she slipped from the
chair, slid to her knees, and laid her head on the couch beside him,
both hands covering her face, which had turned dead white.

Minute after minute passed with no sound, no movement except as he
passed his hand over her forehead and hair. He knew