* * * * *

The boy seemed deathly tired as they crossed the dim lawn at Silverside.  Once, on the veranda steps he stumbled, and Selwyn’s arm sustained him; but the older man forbore to question him, and Gerald, tight-lipped and haggard, offered no confidence until, at the door of his bedroom, he turned and laid an unsteady hand on Selwyn’s shoulder:  “I want to talk with you—­to-morrow.  May I?”

“You know you may, Gerald.  I am always ready to stand your friend.”

“I know. . . .  I must have been crazy to doubt it.  You are very good to me.  I—­I am in a very bad fix.  I’ve got to tell you.”

“Then we’ll get you out of it, old fellow,” said Selwyn cheerfully.  “That’s what friends are for, too.”

The boy shivered—­looked at the floor, then, without raising his eyes, said good-night, and, entering his bedroom, closed the door.

As Selwyn passed back along the corridor, the door of his sister’s room opened, and Austin and Nina confronted him.

“Has that damfool boy come in?” demanded his brother-in-law, anxiety making his voice tremulous under its tone of contempt.

“Yes.  Leave him to me, please.  Good-night”—­submitting to a tender embrace from his sister—­“I suppose Eileen has retired, hasn’t she?  It’s an ungodly hour—­almost sunrise.”

“I don’t know whether Eileen is asleep,” said Nina; “she expected a word with you, I understand.  But don’t sit up—­don’t let her sit up late.  We’ll be a company of dreadful wrecks at breakfast, anyway.”

And his sister gently closed the door while he continued on to the end of the corridor and halted before Eileen’s room.  A light came through the transom; he waited a moment, then knocked very softly.

“Is it you?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes.  I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No.  Is Gerald here?”

“Yes, in his own room. . . .  Did you wish to speak to me about anything?”

“Yes.”

He heard her coming to the door; it opened a very little.  “Good-night,” she whispered, stretching toward him her hand—­“that was all I wanted—­to—­to touch you before I closed my eyes to-night.”

He bent and looked at the hand lying within his own—­the little hand with its fresh fragrant palm upturned and the white fingers relaxed, drooping inward above it—­at the delicate bluish vein in the smooth wrist.

Then he released the hand, untouched by his lips; and she withdrew it and closed the door; and he heard her laugh softly, and lean against it, whispering: 

“Now that I am safely locked in—­I merely wish to say that—­in the old days—­a lady’s hand was sometimes—­kissed. . . .  Oh, but you are too late, my poor friend!  I can’t come out; and I wouldn’t if I could—­not after what I dared to say to you. . . .  In fact, I shall probably remain locked up here for days and days. . . .  Besides, what I said is out of fashion—­has no significance nowadays—­or, perhaps, too much. . . .  No, I won’t dress and come out—­even for you. Je me deshabille—­je fais ma toilette de nuit, monsieur—­et je vais maintenant m’agenouiller et faire ma priere.  Donc—­bon soir—­et bonne nuit—­”