she said, "can't you help me a little? I really am
serious. I don't know what to do with the girl. Philip never comes near
us--once a week for an hour or two, which is nothing--and the child
misses him. There--the murder is out! Eileen misses him. Oh, she doesn't
say so--she doesn't hint it, or look it; but I know her; I know. She
misses him; she's lonely. And what to do about it I don't know, Boots, I
don't know."

Lansing had ceased laughing. He had been indulging in tea--a shy vice of
his which led him to haunt houses where that out-of-fashion beverage
might still be had. And now he sat, cup suspended, saucer held meekly
against his chest, gazing out at the pelting snow-flakes.

"Boots, dear," said Nina, who adored him, "tell me what to do. Tell me
what has gone amiss between my brother and Eileen. Something has. And
whatever it is, it began last autumn--that day when--you remember the
incident?"

Boots nodded.

"Well, it seemed to upset everybody, somehow. Philip left the next day;
do you remember? And Eileen has never been quite the same. Of course, I
don't ascribe it to that unpleasant episode--even a young girl gets over
a shock in a day. But the--the change--or whatever it is--dated from
that night. . . . They--Philip and Eileen--had been inseparable. It was
good for them--for her, too. And as for Phil--why, he looked about
twenty-one! . . . Boots, I--I had hoped--expected--and I was right! They
_were_ on the verge of it!"

"I think so, too," he said.

She looked up curiously.

"Did Philip ever say--"

"No; he never _says_, you know."

"I thought that men--close friends--sometimes did."

"Sometimes--in romantic fiction. Phil wouldn't; nor," he added
smilingly, "would I."

"How do you know, Boots?" she asked, leaning back to watch him out of
mischievous eyes. "How do you know what you'd do if you were in
love--with Gladys, for example?"

"I know perfectly well," he said, "because I am."

"In love!" incredulously.

"Of course."

"Oh--you mean Drina."

"Who else?" he asked lightly.

"I thought you were speaking seriously. I"--all her latent instinct for
such meddling aroused--"I thought perhaps you meant Gladys."

"Gladys who?" he asked blandly.

"Gladys Orchil, silly! People said--"

"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed; "if people 'said,' then it's all over. Nina!
do I look like a man on a still hunt for a million?"

"Gladys is a beauty!" retorted Nina indignantly.

"With the intellect of a Pe