a reflection from the large mirror that overhung the mantel, and stopped to survey himself. It was not a handsome face that looked back at him. Even though the eyes were clear and straightforward, and the chin strong, the other features were irregular-unruly hair, smudged eyebrows, a lop-sided nose, thin, compressed lips, and a complextion badly scarred by a childhood infection of smallpox. But the figure, of medium height, was arresting, with powerful back, chest, and arms that spoke of his earlier years of devotion to gymnastics and outdoor sports. He carried this. muscled bulk with an easy grace, yet unassumingly, almost humbly, as if a superb body were nothing for which he expected credit. He thought of Ted, who had so often seemed to admire his strength, whose hands had so often rested upon his shoulders. Now, with a wrench, he forced himself to review the events of this morning... the shock, the tenderness, the hurt that had been packed so tightly together during the past four hours.

It was Sunday, and he had awakened early. Only partly dressed, he had knocked softly on Ted's bedroom door to arouse him. They were planning a day of sailing along one of the nearby lagoons, and had reserved a boat for nine o'clock. It was now after eight.

you...

"Yup... ... I'm awake... come in . . ." Ted's sleepy, muffled voice reached him through the closed door. Roger entered, and partly reclosed the door. "Out of bed, !" Roger lowered his voice so as not to waken his mother, who slept in an adjoining room. "We're behind schedule already." Ted, still in bed, was yawning and stretching prodigiously, as Roger, standing near the bedstead, alternately buttoned his shirt and ran fingers through his rumpled hair.

The bedroom door creaked faintly, and a moment later, loudly. Roger turned. His mother was standing in the doorway, clutching a shapeless wrapper tightly about her. Roger opened his mouth to say good morning, but was stopped by her grim expression, the glitter in her pale, sleep-wrinkled eyes.

"This is all I need... !" Her harsh voice grated through the silence. "And I mean you, Mr. Ted!" Ted raised himself in bed and turned to face her, pale and serious.

"Go on," he said, quietly.

"You bet I'll go on..." Her tones carried all the pent-up bitterness of long, husbandless, lonely years. "Seduce my son, will you! Turn him into a . . . a freak like yourself, will you!" She was by the bed now, spitting at Ted like an outraged cat. Ted had gotten out from the other side of the bed, and was throwing on his clothes.

"Oh... I was just waiting to see how long it would be before you'd have him spending the night with you! Don't bother to whitewash yourself... it's all plain enough. Now get out of this house!" Roger's head had begun to spin under the lies, the strange accusations that he was unable to understand. He blushed scarlet that his friend should have to endure such a tongue-lashing at his mother's hands. Now Ted was standing by them, confronting Anna squarely, looking down at her with calm, steady eyes.

"For the record," he began in a low, even voice, "none of the things you have just said are true. I... Roger . . ." his voice shook a little . . . "Roger has been like a twin brother to me." Anna smirked, but he ignored this. "I think I know," he continued, "what Martha must have said in the letter that came that afternoonthe letter you wouldn't finish reading." He glanced away, with eyes hollowed by strain and unhappiness. "I was hoping..." he stopped to pass a hand across his face... "I was hoping that you would come to me, Anna, long ago, so we could

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