he said, "and you're a girl. That's why."

Joan made a face. "I see. The conventions again. Isn't there any
sort of woman here?"

"Yes, the cook."

She laughed. There was a comic side to this tragedy, after all, it
seemed. "Well, perhaps she'll give us some scrambled eggs and
coffee. I could eat a horse."

Martin opened the door of the sitting room. Like the one in which
she had slept so soundly the previous night, it was stamped with the
character and personality of the other Martin Gray. Books, warm and
friendly, lined the walls. Mounted on wood, fish of different sizes
and breeds hung above the cases, and over the fireplace there was a
full-length oil painting of a man in a red coat and riding breeches.
His kind eyes greeted Joan.

For several minutes she stood beneath it, smiling back. Then she
turned and put her hand involuntarily on the boy's shoulder. "Oh,
Marty!" she said. "I AM sorry."

The boy gave one quick upward glance, and cleared his throat. "I
told you that this house is mine. It isn't. It's yours. It's the
only way, if you're to remain in the city. Is it good enough? Do you
want to stay as much as all that?"

The puzzled look came back. For a moment Joan was silent, worrying
out the meaning of Martin's abrupt and rather cryptic words. There