Of course Miss Sherwood did not make of Larry a complete confidant.  For all her smiling, easy frankness, he knew that there were many doors of her being which she never unlocked for him.  What he saw was so interesting that he could not help being interested about the rest.  Of course many details were open to him.  She was an excellent sportswoman; a rare dancer; there were many men interested in her; she dined out almost every other evening at some social affair blooming belatedly in May (most of her friends were already settled in their country homes, and she was still in town only because her place on Long Island was in disorder due to a two months’ delay in the completion of alterations caused by labor difficulties); she had made a study of beetles; she had a tiny vivarium in the apartment and here she would sit studying her pets with an interest and patience not unlike that of old Fabre upon his stony farm.  Also, as Larry learned from her accounts, there was a day nursery on the East Side whose lack of a deficit was due to her.

All in all she was a healthy, normal, intelligent, unself-sacrificing woman who belonged distinctly to her own day; who gave a great deal to life, and who took a great deal from life.

Often Larry wished she would speak of Hunt.  He was curious about Hunt, of whom he thought daily; and such talk might yield him information about the blustering, big-hearted painter who was gypsying it down at the Duchess’s.  But as the days passed she never mentioned Hunt again; not even to ask where he was or what he was doing.  She was adhering very strictly to the remark she had made the night Larry came here:  “I don’t want to know until he wants me to know.”  And so Hunt remained the same incomplete picture to Larry; the painter was indubitably at home in such surroundings as these, and he was at home as a roistering, hard-working vagabond at the Duchess’s—­but all the vast spaces between were utterly blank, except for the sketchy remarks Hunt had made concerning himself.

Larry had guessed that hurt pride was the reason for Hunt’s vanishment from the world which had known him.  But he knew hurt pride was not Miss Sherwood’s motive for making no inquiries.  Anger?  No.  Jealousy?  No.  Some insult offered her?  No.  Larry went through the category of ordinary motives, of possible happenings; but he could find none which would reconcile her very keen and kindly feeling for Hunt with her abstinence from all inquiries.

From his first day in his sanctuary Larry spent long hours every day over the accounts and documents Miss Sherwood had put in his hands.  They were indeed a tangle.  Originally the Sherwood estate had consisted of solid real-estate holdings.  But now that Larry had before him the records of holdings and of various dealings he learned that the character of the Sherwood fortune had altered greatly.  Miss Sherwood’s father had neglected the care of this sober business in favor of speculative investment and even outright gambling in stocks; and Dick, possessing this strain of his father, and lacking his father’s experience, had and was speculating even more wildly.