what seemed to be his usual fire of amiable conversation and watched
Rhoda constantly through inscrutable black eyes. But he made no attempt
to serve her.

Rhoda was scarcely conscious of the deference showed her, partly because
she had received it so long, partly because that detached frame of mind
of the hopeless invalid made the life about her seem shadowy and unreal.
Nothing really mattered much. She lay back in her chair with the little
wistful smile, the somber light in her eyes that had become habitual to
her.

After dinner was finished Katherine led the way to the living-room. To
his unspeakable pride, Rhoda took Billy Porter's arm and he guided her
listless footsteps carefully, casting pitying glances on his less favored
friends. Jack wheeled a Morris chair before the fireplace--desert nights
are cool--and John DeWitt hurried for a shawl, while Katherine gave every
one orders that no one heeded in the least.

Cartwell followed after the others, slowly lighted a cigarette, then
seated himself at the piano. For the rest of the evening he made no
attempt to join in the fragmentary conversation. Instead he sang softly,
as if to himself, touching the keys so gently that their notes seemed
only the echo of his mellow voice. He sang bits of Spanish love-songs,
of Mexican lullabies. But for the most part he kept to Indian
melodies--wistful love-songs and chants that touched the listener with
strange poignancy.

There was little talk among the group around the fire. The three men
smoked peacefully. Katherine and Jack sat close to each other, on the
davenport, content to be together. DeWitt lounged where he could watch