almost cloistral quietude. Now with memories of his own home fresh in his
mind, dinner in the kitchen, the soiled tablecloth, the sizzling pans on
the stove, he felt he had no place there and was an impostor. Their
greeting increased his discomfort. They were so kind, so hospitable,
making him come into the dining room and take a cup of coffee. It was an
uprush of that angry loyalty, that determination to hold close to his
own, which made him say as soon as he was seated,

"I've been home for two weeks."

"Home?" said Lorry gently.

And, "Where _is_ your home?" came from Aunt Ellen, as if she had just
recognized the fact that he must have one somewhere but had never thought
about it before.

The sound of his voice, gruff as a day laborer's after these flute-sweet
tones, increased his embarrassment. Nevertheless he determined that he
would tell them about his home.

"Up in Sacramento County not far from the tules. My father's a rancher,
has a little bit of land there."

"Yes, Charlie Crowder told us," said Lorry. She didn't seem to notice
the "little bit of land," it was just as if he'd said four or five
thousand acres and described a balconied house with striped awnings and
cushioned chairs.

He cast a glance of gratitude toward her, met her eyes and dropped his
own to his cup. There they encountered his hand, holding the coffee