job tonight."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know." There was no question about her voice sounding as
usual this time.

Jimmie brushed the sand slowly away from the buried hand and covered
it with his own. He drew nearer, his face close, and closer to hers.
Gertrude closed her eyes. It was coming, it was coming and she was
glad. That silly old vow of celibacy, her silly old thoughts about
art. What was art? What was anything with the arms of the man you
loved closing about you. His lips were on hers.

Jimmie drew a sharp breath, and let her go.

"Gertrude," he said, "I'm incorrigible. I ought to be spanked. I'd
make love to--Eleanor's grandmother if I had her down here on a night
like this. Will you forgive me?"

Gertrude got to her feet a little unsteadily, but she managed a
smile.

"It's only the moon," she said, "and--and young blood. I think
Grandfather Amos would probably affect me the same way."

Jimmie's momentary expression of blankness passed and Gertrude did not
press her advantage. They walked home in silence.

"It's awfully companionable to realize that you also are human,
'Trude," he hazarded on the doorstep.

Gertrude put a still hand into his, which is a way of saying "Good
night," that may be more formal than any other.

"The Colonel's lady, and July O'Grady," she quoted lightly. "Good
night, Jimmie."

Up-stairs in her great chamber under the eaves, Eleanor was composing
a poem which she copied carefully on a light blue page of her private
diary. It read as follows:

"To love, it is the saddest thing,
When friendship proves unfit,
For lots of sadness it will bring,
When e'er you think of it.

Alas! that friends should prove untrue
And disappoint you so.
Because you don't know what to do,
And hardly where to go."

CHAPTER XII

MADAM BOLLING

"Is this the child, David?"

"Yes, mother."

Eleanor stared impassively into the lenses of Mrs. Bolling's
lorgnette.

"This is my mother, Eleanor."

Eleanor courtesied as her Uncle Jimmie had taught her, but she did not
take her eyes from Mrs. Bolling's face.

"Not a bad-looking child. I hate this American fashion of dressing
children like French dolls, in bright colors and smart lines. The
English are so much more sensible. An English country child would have
cheeks as red as ap