owerful
searchlight, seemed to thrust through fog and darkness and to light up
everything in its path. Said he:

"Do you wish me to tell you why I don't like you?"

"No!" she cried hysterically. "Never mind--I don't know what I'm
saying." And she went hastily into the house. A moment later, in her
own room upstairs, she was wondering at herself. Why had she become
confused? What did he mean? What had she seen--or half seen--in the
darkness and fog within herself when he looked at her? In a passion
she cried:

"If he would only stay away!"

VI

BUT he did not stay away. He owned and lived in a small house up on
the Rumson Road. While the house was little more than a bungalow and
had a simplicity that completely hid its rare good taste from the
average observer, its grounds were the most spacious in that
neighborhood of costly, showy houses set in grounds not much more
extensive than a city building lot. The grounds had been cleared and
drained to drive out and to keep out the obnoxious insect life, but had
been left a forest, concealing the house from the roads. Stanley Baird
was now stopping with Keith, and brought him along to the cottage by
the sea every day.

The parties narrowed to the same four persons. Mrs. Brindley seemed
never to tire of talking to Keith--or to tire of talking about him when
the two men had left, late each night. As for Stanley, he referred
everything to Keith--the weather prospects, where they should go for
the day, what should be eaten and drunk, any point about politics or
fashion, life or literature or what not, that happened to be discussed.
And he looked upon Donald's monosyllabic reply to his inquiry as a
final judgment, ending all possibility of argument. Mildred held out
long. Then, in spite of herself, she began to yield, ceased to dislike
him, found a kind of pleasure--or, perhaps, fascinated interest--in the
nervousness his silent and indifferent presence caused her. She liked
to watch that immobile, perfect profile, neither young nor old, indeed
not suggesting age in any degree, but only experience and
knowledge--and an infinite capacity for emotion, for passion even. The
dead-white color declared it had already been lived; the brilliant,
usually averted or veiled eyes asserted present vitality, pulsing under
a calm surface.

One day when Stanley, in the manner of one who wishes a thing settled
and settled right, said he would ask Donald Keith about it