A man sat at a plain table with his back to the door. A woman hold­ing a teapot regarded the man in silence, a hesitant, appealing look which struggled with exasperation. She stirred at last and poured tea for Joe Freeman. Could any man be so silent, could any man sit so stiffly in new ill-fitting clothes, could any man look up into a woman’s eyes with so much love? She glanced at him across her cup but snatched her eyes away and bit her lip and would have bitten it through, such was her an­ger that he should cause her to feel this way. She struggled hugely to control a shudder at the look of dog devotion in those eyes.