But Ned caught Loretta in the afternoon in the big living-room. She tried
to turn away. He caught her hands, and she faced him with wet lashes and
trembling lips. He looked at her, silently and kindly. The lashes grew
wetter.

"There, there, don't cry, little one," he said soothingly.

He put his arm protectingly around her shoulder. And to his shoulder, like
a tired child, she turned her face. He thrilled in ways unusual for a
Greek who has recovered from the long sickness.

"Oh, Ned," she sobbed on his shoulder, "if you only knew how wicked I am!"

He smiled indulgently, and breathed in a great breath freighted with the
fragrance of her hair. He thought of his world-experience of women, and
drew another long breath. There seemed to emanate from her the perfect
sweetness of a child--"the aura of a white soul," was the way he phrased it
to himself.

Then he noticed that her sobs were increasing.

"What's the matter, little one?" he asked pettingly and almost paternally.
"Has Jack been bullying you? Or has your dearly beloved sister failed to
write?"

She did not answer, and he felt that he really must kiss her hair, that he
could not be responsible if the situation continued much longer.

"Tell me," he said gently, "and we'll see what I can do."