to cut Sheila's description
short. "Say, Sheila, did you send for me to tell me about this lovely
friendship of yours with Jim?"

Sheila set her cup down on the window-sill. She did not want to lose her
temper with Dickie. She brushed a wafer crumb from her knee.

"No, Dickie, I didn't. I sent for you because, after all, though I've
been so angry with you, I've known in my heart that--that--you are a
loyal friend and that you tell the truth."

This admission was an effort. Sheila's pride suffered to the point of
bringing a dim sound of tears into her voice....

Dickie did not speak. He too put down his tea-cup and his wafer side by
side on the floor near his chair. He put his elbows on his knees and bent
his head down as though he were examining his thin, locked hands.

Sheila waited for a long minute; then she said angrily, "Aren't you glad
I think that of you?"

"Yes'm." Dickie's voice was indistinct.

"You don't seem glad."

Dickie made some sort of struggle. Sheila could not quite make out its
nature. "I'm glad. I'm so glad that it kind of--hurts," he said.

"Oh!" That at least was pleasant intelligence to a wounded pride.

Fortified, Sheila began the real business of the interview. "You are not
an artist, Dickie," she said, "and you don't understand why your father
asked me to work at The Aura nor why I wanted to work there. It was your
entire inability to understand--"

"Entire inability--" whispered Dickie as though he were taking down the
phrase with an intention of looking it up later.

This confused Sheila. "Your--your entire inability," she repeated
rapidly, "your--your entire inability--"

"Yes'm. I've got that."

"--To understand that made me so angry that day." Sheila was glad to be
rid of that obstruction. She had planned this speech rather carefully in
the watches of the wakeful, feverish morning which had been her night.
"You seemed to be trying to pull your father and me down to some lower
spiritual level of your own."

"Lower spiritual level," repeated Dickie.

"Dickie, stop that, please!"

He looked up, startled by her sharpness. "Stop what, ma'am?"

"Saying things after me. It's insufferable."

"Insufferable--oh, I suppose it is. You're usin' so many words, Sheila. I
kind of forgot there was so many words as you're makin' use of this
afternoon."

"Oh, Dickie, Dickie! Can't you see how miserable I am! I am so unhappy
and--and scared, and you--you are making fun of me."

At