The next morning Amarilly served Derry's breakfast in heavy-hearted
silence, replying in low-voiced monosyllables to his gay, conversational
advances. She performed her household duties about the studio listlessly
though with conscientious thoroughness. When it came time to prepare
luncheon, Derry called her into the studio.

"Come here to the light, where I can see you best, Amarilly."

Reluctantly she came.

He turned his searching, artist's eyes upon her unsparingly, noting the
violet shadows under the white-lidded eyes, and the hard, almost tragic
lines in the drooping of her mobile mouth. She bore his gaze
unflinchingly, with indrawn breath and clenched hands.

"What is it, Amarilly?" he asked gently. "You will tell me, _nicht
wahr_?"

These two last words were in deference to her new study of German.

At the genuine sympathy in his voice, Amarilly's composure gave way and
there was a rush of tears.

He led her to a divan and sat beside her.

"Yes, of course you will tell me, Amarilly. I knew there was an
emotional side to my practical, little maid, and I noticed at breakfast
that there was something wrong."

"Yes," she replied, with an effort, wiping away the rising tears, "I
will tell you, but no one else. If I told Mr. Vedder, he would not
understand; he would say I must do what was sensible. If I told Mr. St.
John, he would be shocked, and tell me that duty was hard, and that was
why it must be done,--to strengthen. Mrs. St. John would laugh, and say:
'Oh, what a foolish Amarilly!'"