I went into the library and got a book, but it was impossible to read, with Jimmy lying on the couch giving vent to something between a sigh and a groan every few minutes.  About eleven the cards stopped, and Bella said she would read palms.  She began with Mr. Harbison, because she declared he had a wonderful hand, full of possibilities; she said he should have been a great inventor or a playwright, and that his attitude to women was one of homage, respect, almost reverence.  He had the courage to look at me, and if a glance could have killed he would have withered away.

When Jimmy proffered his hand, she looked at it icily.  Of course she could not refuse, with Mr. Harbison looking on.

“Rather negative,” she said coldly.  “The lines are obscured by cushions of flesh; no heart line at all, mentality small, self-indulgence and irritability very marked.”

Jim held his palm up to the light and stared at it.

“Gad!” he said.  “Hardly safe for me to go around without gloves, is it?”

It was all well enough for Jim to laugh, but he was horribly hurt.  He stood around for a few minutes, talking to Anne, but as soon as he could he slid away and went to bed.  He looked very badly the next morning, as though he had not slept, and his clothes quite hung on him.  He was actually thinner.  But that is ahead of the story.

Max came to me while the others were sitting around drinking nightcaps, and asked me in a low tone if he could see me in the den; he wanted to ask me something.  Dal overheard.

“Ask her here,” he said.  “We all know what it is, Max.  Go ahead and we’ll coach you.”

“Will you coach me?” I asked, for Mr. Harbison was listening.

“The woman does not need it,” Dal retorted.  And then, because Max looked angry enough really to propose to me right there, I got up hastily and went into the den.  Max followed, and closing the door, stood with his back against it.

“Contrary to the general belief, Kit,” he began, “I did not intend to ask you to marry me.”

I breathed easier.  He took a couple of steps toward me and stood with his arms folded, looking down at me.  “I’m not at all sure, in fact, that I shall ever propose to you,” he went on unpleasantly.

“You have already done it twice.  You are not going to take those back, are you, Max?” I asked, looking up at him.

But Max was not to be cajoled.  He came close and stood with his hand on the back of my chair.  “What happened on the roof tonight?” He demanded hoarsely.

“I do not think it would interest you,” I retorted, coloring in spite of myself.

“Not interest me!  I am shut in this blasted house; I have to see the only woman I ever loved—­really loved,” he supplemented, as he caught my eye, “pretend she is another man’s wife.  Then I sit back and watch her using every art—­all her beauty—­to make still another man love her, a man who thinks she is a married woman.  If Harbison were worth the trouble, I would tell him the whole story, Aunt Selina be—­obliterated!”