mit that. And every one knows David Weatherbee practically deserted you
for years."

Tisdale saw her mouth tremble. The quiver ran over her face, her whole
body. For an instant her lashes fell, then she lifted them and met Marcia
Feversham's calculating look. "It was not desertion," she said. "He
contributed--his best--to my support. I took all he had to give. If ever
you are where people are--talking--do me the favor to correct that
mistake. And, now, if you please, Marcia, we will not bring David
Weatherbee in any more."

Mrs. Feversham laughed a little. "I am willing, bygones are bygones, only
listen to Frederic."

"You are mistaken, too, about Mr. Morganstein's motive, Marcia. He built
this house for all his friends and Elizabeth's. He owes her something; she
has always been so devoted to him." And she added, as she turned to go
back to the gallery, "He knows I do not care to marry again."

Tisdale had not foreseen the personal drift to the conversation. And it
had not occurred to him he was unobserved; the balcony light was directly
over him, and he had waited, expecting they would come through to the
porch, to speak to them. Now he saw that from where they had stopped in
the brilliant interior, his figure must have blended into the background
of hemlock boughs. If they had given him any thought, they had believed he
had gone down with Elizabeth and the lieutenant. To have apologized, made
himself known, after he grasped the significance of the situation, would
only have resulted in embarrassment to them all. He allowed them time to
reach the floor below. But the heat rose in his face. And suddenly, as his
mind ran back over that interview in the bows of the _Aquila_, his
question in regard to Foster seemed gross. Still, still, she had said she
did "not care to marry again." That one fact radiated subconsciously
through the puzzling thoughts that baffled him.

Behind him a few splendid chords rolled through the hall to the vaulted
roof, then pealed forth the overture from Martha. That had been
Weatherbee's favorite opera. Sometimes on long Arctic nights, when they
were recalling old times and old songs, he himself had taken Plunkett's
part to David's Lionel. He could see that cabin now, the door set wide,
while their voices stormed the white silence under the near Yukon stars.
His eyes gathered their absent expression. It was as though he looked
beyond the park, far and away into other vast solitudes; saw once