Claire was unable to answer; she disliked both his tone and his expression, but she had nothing to subst.i.tute for his explanation.

They walked on in silence for a few minutes through the trees before she ventured a little lamely, "I don't know what to say."

Philip looked up, smilingly. "To say about what, Claire?" Then he remembered, and continued hastily, "Oh, pardon me. I know, of course.

About Lawrence. If I could suggest anything to do, I would. He is an interesting friend, but I have nothing to offer. It seems to me that we can do no more than to let him alone. He will work it out for himself.

If he does not, we cannot help. He would not expect us to do so."

"That's no reason we shouldn't try," she flashed, "unless, of course, you quite agree with his argument after all."

Philip colored slightly and said, "I admit the fault, Claire, but what can we do?"

"Couldn't you get him to tell what's the matter?" she asked, groping for something to say.

"No more than you could. Perhaps even less easily. You know him better than I and understand him better."

She laughed, a little satisfaction warming her at his words. "Sometimes I think I understand him, sometimes I know I don't. As he himself would say, it is merely a matter of blind psychology, is it not?"

"It is not," she answered positively. "It's more a matter of artist psychology, I think."

"Perhaps," he admitted; "certainly the combination is difficult."

"I do wish we could do something for him."

"He would be better off if he would come out with us, but since he will not, he will not." Philip's tone showed clearly that he was inclined to let the matter drop.

But not so Claire. "You are willing to help me, aren't you, Philip?"

"Why yes, if there is any way in which I can be of service."

"We might stay and talk with him more."

"That is useless, I fear," he said abruptly, his own wishes revolting against sacrificing his companionship with Claire or against sharing it with Lawrence.

"He was unhesitating in his care for me those days we wandered," she remarked simply.

"Pardon me again. I forgot for the time that you owed him anything."

"He doesn't consider that I owe him anything. It's simply that I want him to be as happy as possible shut up here with us away from his own kind of life."

"Oh!" Philip looked at her thoughtfully. "Do you think he could be happier with other people?"

"I'm afraid so," she answered, a little regretfully.

Philip's eyes searched her face. "I should think you could satisfy any one's need for companionship," he said, quietly.

"Don't flatter, Philip. That was a very silly speech."

"Was it? It was not flattery at any rate. It is my feeling about you."

"Please," she said, stopping, "let's not go into that again."

"Very well, but why cannot my lady extend her charity? There are other unfortunates besides Lawrence who have troubles to face."

"Oh, Philip, you really haven't any troubles. You merely imagine you have."

He laughed, a little bitterly. "I suppose a life's happiness is a small thing."

"It isn't, Philip," she protested. "But you can get out and tramp and trap and see things, and, after all, you don't really love me as you thought you did. We've settled all that."

"I know we have," he agreed. "That is, you have."

She looked him over, angrily. "So this is the outcome! I ask you to think of another person who needs our care, and you disregard him for your own little troubles!"

Philip looked down and flushed crimson. "Well, it does seem as if I were selfish. I am afraid I am. But I do not mean to be. I can talk to him if you wish."

"You needn't," she said, angered still more. "It isn't charity I'm asking you to bestow on him. He doesn't need that, and you ought to know it."

She had laid more emphasis than she intended on the word "he," and Philip's face darkened.

"I see," he said coldly. "It is I after all to whom you are charitable.

Thank you."

Tears of vexation came to Claire's eyes. "Oh, I do wish you'd be reasonable," she said, half angrily, half pleadingly. "Don't you understand that I am giving you more frank friendship than ever I gave any man in my life? Isn't that of any value to you? Don't you realize how unfair you have been to Lawrence?"

His face grew suddenly white, as he said, "Do you love him, Claire?"

She did not look away from him. "If I did, would it concern you?"

He took one step toward her, then stopped.

"Yes, it would," he answered.

Her anger almost mastered her, but she controlled herself.

"Philip, are we two irrational animals going to spoil everything? I had hoped you might at least allow our companionship to live."

He looked at her without answering. Finally, he choked, "Don't--don't, Claire, I have the right to know."

"If I promise to tell you when there is anything to tell, will you be satisfied?" She felt no scruple of conscience at her pretense of indifference to Lawrence, only a sense of protection for him. She did not know from what she was protecting him, but the feeling gave her a strange pleasure.

"I will," Philip returned, simply.

"And in the mean time will you help me pull him out of his slough of despond?" she asked, smiling with the old, frank, intimate manner.

"Surely I will, though I confess I do not see the way."

"Then shall we go at once and begin our cheering process, my friend?"

she said, as though she were conferring a favor by the use of the word.