t was not unnatural that at this juncture John Baird's eyes should
wander across the room to where Miss Amory Starkweather sat, but it was a
coincidence that as his eye fell upon her she should meet it with a
gesture which called him to her side.

"It seems that Miss Amory wishes to speak to me," he said to his
companions.

"He'll make himself just as interesting to her as he has made himself to
us," said Mrs. Stornaway, with heavy sprightliness, as he left them. "He
never spares himself trouble."

He went across the room to Miss Amory.

"Can you sit down by me?" she said. "I want to talk to you about Lucien
Latimer."

"What is there in the atmosphere which suggests Latimer?" he inquired.
"We have been talking about him at the other side of the room. Do you
know him?"

"I never saw him," she replied, "but I knew her."

"Her!" he repeated.

"The little sister." She leaned forward a little. "What were the details
of her death?" she asked. "I want to know--I want to know."

Somehow the words sounded nervously eager.

"I did not ask him," he answered; "I thought he preferred to be silent.
He is a silent man."

She sat upright again, and for a moment seemed to forget herself. She
said something two or three times softly to herself. Baird thought it was
"Poor child! Poor child!"

"She was young to die," he said, in a low voice. "Poor child, indeed."

Miss Amory came back to him, as it were.

"The younger, the better," she said. "Look at me!" Her burning eyes were
troubling and suggestive. Baird found himself trying to gather himself
together. He assumed the natural air of kindly remonstrance.

"Oh, come," he said. "Don't take that tone. It is unfair to all of us."

Her reply was certainly rather a startling one.

"Very well then," she responded. "Look at yourself. If you had died as
young as she did----"

He looked at her, conscious of a little coldness creeping over his body.
She was usually lighter when they were not entirely alone. Just now, in
the midst of this commonplace, exceedingly middle-class evening party,
with the Larkins, the Downings, and the Burtons chattering, warm,
diffuse, and elate, about him, she stirred him with a little horror--not
horror of herself, but of something in her mood.

"Do you think I am such a bad fellow?" he said.

"No," she answered. "Worse, poor thing. It is not the bad fellows who
produce the crudest results. But I did not call you here to tell you that
you were