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Henry Rossbeke, a stoutishly handsome man of fifty, had the look of slightly wearied scholarship that is sometimes like a frosty coating upon lifelong probers into the arts; but there was no frostiness in his reception of Bailey Fount.

“Hurrah, so you’re here!” He came forward, almost shouting, hand outstretched, as the young soldier entered the inner room. “Sit down; sit down. I’m delighted to meet you and so’ll we all be. We’ll do our best to make you comfortable among us.” He went to the doorway. “Mrs. Williams, please call up Miss Jyre. She’ll be in the upper southwest gallery, or perhaps among the Primitives. Tell her Mr. Bailey Fount’s arrived. You had a pleasant journey, I hope, Mr. Fount?”

“It—it was all right, sir,” Bailey Fount said in his jerkily hesitant way. “Yes, I—well, I——Of course I know I look pretty queer, so probably anybody in the train that noticed me must have wondered what was the matter with me. They must have thought——”

“Nonsense! Of course they didn’t. The uniform—if nothing else—answers that idea, Mr. Fount.”

“Well, I——” The young man seemed to have forgotten the invitation to sit; then saw another spindle-legged settee, abruptly went to it, sat, and began to twiddle with His cap, keeping downcast eyes upon it. “No, thank you, sir,” he murmured, responding to the offer of a cigarette. “I mean—I mean not now, thank you.”

“I’ll be glad to have you come here whenever you do care to smoke.” Rossbeke sank into an easy-chair near his desk. “It’s the only place in the building where one can. Another thing I believe I ought to mention at once, Mr. Fount: we’ll see that your work in the museum shan’t keep you on your feet too much of the time. One of the letters about you I’ve had from my dear old friend, Frank Bedge, explained that your wounded leg——”

“It’s coming all right, sir.” Bailey Fount glanced up for an instant. “Colonel Bedge is a great doctor as well as—as well as a lot of other things.”

“Isn’t he, though!” Rossbeke agreed heartily. “A grand old soul, Frank Bedge, and his particular interest in you turns out to be a bully thing for what’s left of us here. We had a rather youthful staff; the war’s taken nine-tenths of the male side of it, and the Waves and Wacs have left us almost as underwomaned as we are undermanned. Don’t make any mistake, we look upon you as a godsend.”

“What? Oh, no! I—I’m afraid——” This disjointed mutter from the settee was almost inaudible. “I don’t know if I’ll do at all. Most likely not.”

“Oh, but you will!” Rossbeke remained cheerful. “I’ve gone into all that with Frank Bedge by letter. You’ll get onto things here easily; don’t worry. Most of your work’ll be simple routine and you’ll be associated with a delightful woman, Helena Jyre. She’s our Curator of Paintings and, as Assistant Curator, you’ll be under her wing. I think you’ll find that agreeable. In fact, I’m pretty confident you’ll like all of us—the staff, that is.” The Director paused, flushed a little, spoke impulsively and with feeling. “We hope so because we’re proud—very proud, Mr. Fount—to have you with us.”

“No! No! Oh, no!” The young soldier glanced up again and his right hand left the twisting cap to make a zigzag wave of protest. “Not that! No, sir, not——”

“We are, though. We’re all proud to have you here. It may be hard on your modesty; but I must say it. War heroes don’t grow on every tree and——”

“No! No! I’m not one! I can’t——”

“Don’t fear, I won’t press it,” Rossbeke assured him. “I just had to say it once, for all of us; but it’s done, so be easy. Besides, I think you’ll begin to like your new job right now because there’s Miss Jyre’s voice saying hello to Mrs. Williams.”

Helena Jyre, already entering, brought the briskest friendliness with her. About thirty and of a dark comeliness, she had the decisive manner of a competent woman made certain of herself by a thousand successful experiences. She reached the settee before Bailey Fount could get to his feet, though he tried. Her hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Don’t ever get up for me. All those rules are off for you and me, Mr. Fount, we’ll be so constantly together. Now perhaps Mr. Rossbeke’ll introduce me to you.”

The Director explained that this had already been done as a prelude to her entrance; she said that then she’d no doubt been described as a slave-driver, and for a few minutes she and Rossbeke maintained a light chatter to which the young man on the settee was no party. He seemed detached from everything except from an inner distress that he struggled not to reveal—and his two new friends shared the sympathetic embarrassment of people who try to brighten things up but know they’re not succeeding. Miss Jyre turned from the Director to the silent settee.

“Mr. Fount, I hope you feel the rightness of your being here as much as Mr. Rossbeke and I were just telling each other we do. What could be more appropriate than your becoming Assistant Curator of Paintings precisely here? Except for Thomas Oaklin, this city wouldn’t have an art museum at all—no more than it would have a symphony orchestra, for that matter. Except for Thomas Oaklin, the museum wouldn’t exist. So for you to join a staff of people who wouldn’t be doing this lovely work except for your family——”

“My family? Why—why, no. They didn’t have anything to do with—I mean I didn’t—I’m not——”

“Oh, yes, you are!” Miss Jyre insisted gayly. “This is the Thomas Oaklin Museum, and Thomas Oaklin was certainly your uncle, wasn’t he?”

“No, he was my—my great-uncle.”

“Exactly!” she cried. “So of course you ought to be just where you are—on the staff of the museum he built. It adds to our prestige; we’re going to brag about it.”

The young soldier’s thin hand was protesting again. “He was only my great-uncle; I don’t think I ever even saw him. Besides, I—I think I——Didn’t Colonel Bedge write you I haven’t had any museum experience? I told him he’d better. You see, I keep thinking I mightn’t—mightn’t do.”

Miss Jyre laughed. “No fear! We know all about it—for instance, that before the war you’d begun to do pretty well at painting, Mr. Fount. A one-man show in New York at the age of twenty-five has never been very usual, has it? Colonel Bedge’s letters also went into details about your art-courses in college and——”

“Yes, I know, but——” He was only the more doubtful. “There are other things, too. Did Colonel Bedge make it clear that I might have to leave at—at any time—without previous notice? I’m to report back to him for examination as soon as I feel pretty sure, myself, that I could pass one, and if Mr. Rossbeke, too, thinks I can. Is that——”

“All understood,” Miss Jyre assured him. “Colonel Bedge knew what he was about in sending you here, and Mr. Rossbeke and I know what we’re about, too. Trust us for that, can’t you?”

“I hope so—thank you,” he said humbly. “When would you like me to begin to try to see if I’ll do? I suppose I ought to get started. To-morrow?”

“To-morrow’s splendid,” Rossbeke said.

“Well——” Bailey Fount glanced at the door. “I’d better get ready. I’ll be moving along. I thought perhaps if I could find a room somewhere near here——”

“You can,” Miss Jyre informed him. “You see, as we’ve been expecting you, we thought you wouldn’t mind if we rather arranged for that. There’s a pleasant sort of pension—I suppose it’s really a boarding-house—only three blocks from the museum, and the food isn’t bad. It’s called The Cranford and I live there, myself, if you don’t mind.”

“No, I’d be glad.” His wasted cheeks flushed. “I mean——”

“Don’t take it back! Here, I’ll write the address.” She took a memorandum book from her skirt pocket, sat down beside him, wrote with a pencil, tore out the slip and gave it to him. “They have a room waiting for you, if you like it. The town’s rather crowded, so I took the liberty of asking them to hold it, to see. The windows look out into nice trees.”

“You’re very kind. Thank you. I——” He rose, stood hesitating, again examining his cap. “Perhaps you could tell me—I’ve never been in this town before. I believe I still have some relatives living here. My mother used to speak of them when she was talking about my great-uncle. They were the widow of his son, my mother’s first-cousin, Thomas Oaklin, Junior—Cousin Folia, my mother called her, and I think she had a daughter. If you happen to know them——”

“Yes, we do.” It was the Director who spoke, and the glance he exchanged with Miss Jyre wasn’t seen by Bailey Fount because of the preoccupying cap. “We both know your cousins, Mrs. Oaklin and—and her daughter—very well.”

“Then will you——” Bailey interrupted himself. “I’ve never met them; but I’ve thought perhaps they’d think I ought to call on them. I suppose it’s a sort of duty. Maybe as I’m starting the work here to-morrow—maybe I’d better go this afternoon and get it over with. If you’ll tell me where they live——”

“Yes, right here,” Rossbeke said, and for the moment his cordial aspect and that of his colleague, Miss Jyre, underwent the almost imperceptible stiffening that takes place when self-controlled people share an effort to withhold a mutual emotion from expression. “They live almost in the museum itself.”

“They do?”

“Yes. As you came in from the street didn’t you notice that house—unfortunately brick, with half-timbering and stucco for the gables? Didn’t you notice that it’s fastened to the museum by a passageway?”

“Yes, I did. I wondered how it’d happened.”

“It happened because your great-uncle lived there,” Rossbeke said. “A part of this eastern wing we’re in was originally his private gallery; but after he’d built the museum and dedicated it to the public he still wanted to come in and browse among the works of art whenever he liked, so he kept the passageway. When he died he left the house to his granddaughter for her lifetime. After that it’s to be torn down; but she and her mother still live there.”

“They do?” The response was listless. “I think I must have got into that passageway, trying to find your office. Somebody told me not to come through there.”

Miss Jyre laughed. “Yes; it’s strictly a limited thoroughfare. They can come in to see us; but if we museumites have to see them we’re supposed to go round outside to their front door.”

“So that’s how I’d better go?” Bailey asked. “If I’m to get through with this call on them perhaps I——”

“You don’t need to bother with it.” Miss Jyre spoke quickly. “The house is practically closed and there’s nobody there but a caretaker. Your cousins have a summer place on the St. Lawrence and they usually don’t get back here till the end of September. So you can postpone——”

Rossbeke intervened, somewhat as if his conscience made him do so. “It just happens that Miss Oaklin is there. I believe only for to-day. In fact, a while ago she was in here and——”

“Oh, she was?” Helena Jyre said, and added reflectively, “She was, was she?”

“Yes.” Rossbeke looked at her as if casually. “Parannik had dropped in and there was quite a talk. So I suppose she’d probably be at home now if Mr. Fount feels that he ought to——”

“Well——” The young man’s forehead showed a vague distress; he may have been remembering the girl who was brusque with him in the passageway. “If it’s only the daughter that’s home I might postpone it, mightn’t I?” The appeal was to Miss Jyre. “Some other afternoon I could just ring the bell and leave my name with the caretaker, couldn’t I? That would look as if I’d tried to see them, wouldn’t it? Do you think that would be all right, Miss Jyre?”

She spoke brightly, covering a throb of compassion. “What could be righter? Of course it would.”

“Then maybe I’d better be getting along to go and see that room and bring my things from the hotel. I——You’ve both been so very kind I——”

“No, we haven’t,” Miss Jyre said as she saw his hands return to their persistent work upon his cap. “I’ve got enough gas in my car parked behind the museum. I’m going to take you to The Cranford, then to the hotel to get your things, then back to The Cranford.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t let you!”

“Yes, you could,” she said. “You’d better begin to get used to my being your immediate boss, hadn’t you?”

“I know; but I mustn’t begin by being a burden. You’re both so very kind I——”

“Not we!” She filled the gap his faltering left. “You’re going to be a life-saver in an almost manless museum.” She cosily took his arm. “Come along. Thank heaven we’ll get at least a breath of coolness in the car, if we don’t melt on the way to it!”

Prattling of the hot weather she led him forth, and Henry Rossbeke, alone, sat in smoking meditation until he’d finished a cigarette; then he left his office, attended to small duties in various parts of the building, wherein were not half a dozen visitors, and returned to the desk in his private room. He was slowly re-reading a letter when Helena Jyre came in, dropped into a chair, tried to fan herself with a handkerchief and moaned, “The poor thing! Oh, the poor thing!”

“Did you get him established?”

“At The Cranford? Yes, he liked it and he’ll rest there all afternoon. It’s a nice room; but he’d have said he liked anything, I’m afraid. Pathetically grateful. This museum’s been too much a shelter from the war—for us; he brings it home. He must have been an alert and vigorous man before this happened to him.”

“Or he wouldn’t have survived at all,” Rossbeke agreed. “Pretty shattered. I wonder if he was always as shy as he seems to be now. I don’t think I’ve ever met a shyer young man.”

“That wasn’t shyness!” Miss Jyre spoke with sudden vehemence. “It’s fear—fear he’ll go to pieces! I tell you, when I sat down on that settee beside him I could feel it trembling. You don’t see the tremble when you look at him; yet all the time he’s holding himself in so tight that he’s shaking. Yes, enough to vibrate that settee. I felt it!”

Rossbeke took up the letter he’d been reading. “Here’s more from Frank Bedge in my morning’s mail: ‘Young Fount will probably be along about the time you receive this. Do get him into the museum work as soon as possible and see that it runs placidly for him. No excitement, no shocks, not even little ones. For his particular case I’m relying on you to furnish the best therapeutics in sight. It ought to come out all right.’ You see, Bedge is confident, Helena.”

“What else does he say?”

Rossbeke read again. “ ‘Don’t let the museum’s publicity department star Fount’s special military exploit. After he began to get better he found out there’d been an account of it in some of the American papers, and it upset him. Like a good many thus glorified, he thinks it makes a fool of him; they’re jumpy about it.’ ” Rossbeke looked up. “I discovered that, myself, Helena. I was indiscreet enough to say something to him about our pride in having a war hero here. He showed acute distress.”

“Naturally he did. So would you or I in his place.”

Rossbeke went on with the letter. “ ‘Fount has acquired a hypersensitiveness about eventually getting back into active service. He thinks that if he doesn’t it makes him a quitter who can’t take it. Amounts to an obsession. He understands that my hospital’s right to send him off like this for a recuperation that’ll need an indefinite time; but he’s got the fixed idea that if it doesn’t fit him to return to combat duty he’ll never be fully a man again. That’s why I didn’t insist upon his accepting a disability discharge. He was so stricken when I suggested it——’ ” Interrupted by a sound from the sympathetic Helena, the Director looked up. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” She controlled her voice. “Go on with the letter.”

Rossbeke resumed his reading: “ ‘So stricken when I suggested it I decided he should have his chance. Regulations require a renewal of leave every thirty days; I’ve arranged those details with him. I want him to think about the war as little as possible. In public, of course, he’ll have to be in uniform; but if he wears it in the museum visitors are likely to ask questions, talk about the war and set him back. Arrange for him to do his work—that is, all the time he’s inside the museum—in civilian clothes. What Fount needs is tranquillity, tranquillity, tranquillity! No emotional jolts but precisely the cheerful busy background, quiet atmosphere and congenial work of an art museum. I trust him to you.’ ”

“ ‘Tranquillity’!” Miss Jyre uttered a sardonic gasp. “Dr. Bedge puts the cure up to our cheerful background and quiet atmosphere, does he? It’s a pity he never saw the place. Tranquillity! When summer’s over, heaven help us!”