thought of something else. She
would leave the others and wait for him to come and find her.) These
things were altogether outside of human experience, a sweet and subtly
attractive run of vagaries which had to do with a tall yellow-haired
maid, now Marguerite Grey.... From something Cairns had said, Bedient
knew she was unhappy. He saw it afresh when he entered the big still
place where she was. She had been working, but dropped a curtain over
the easel as he entered.

"Did I come at a wrong time?" he asked. "I can just as well come
again."

"I don't know of any time so good. You may not want to come again."

She had not been weeping. He saw that with a quick look. It was deeper
than that--something cold and slow and creeping, that made her reckless
with hatred, and writhing. Answering Bedient's swift glance, she
perceived that he had seen deeply, and was glad. It eased her; she
hoped he had seen all, for she was sick with holding her own....
Meanwhile, her soft voice was telling him about her house. The pictures
of her own here and there, were passed over quickly. Children, these,
that the world had found wanting; badly-brought-up children that the
world had frightened back to the parent roof where they warred with one
another.

Back of all, Bedient saw a most feminine creature in the Grey One,
naturally defenceless in her life against the world; a woman so preyed
upon by moods that many a time she gladly would have turned devil, but
was helpless to know how to begin; again and again plucked to the quick
by the world. She had put on foreign scepticisms, and pitifully
attempted to harden herself; but the hardening, try as she would, could
not be spread evenly. It didn't protect her, as Kate Wilkes' did, only
made her the more misunderstood. She did not have less talent than Vina
or Beth; indeed, she had been considered of rather rich promise in
Paris; but she had less developed energies and balance to use them,
less physique. She lacked the spirit of that little thoroughbred, Vina
Nettleton, and the pride and courage of Beth Truba. The Grey One had
been badly hurt in that sadly sensitive period which follows the
putting away of girlish things--when womanhood is new and wonderful.
She was slow to heal. Few men interested her, but she needed a
man-friend, some one to take her in hand. She had needed such a one for
years. He would have been of little use, had he not come at this time.
Bedient's eager friendliness fo