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The house party at Windigo Lodge was breaking up Friday. Dick Mason himself had been gone a week, but his guests lingered on. Those who had stayed were now bound for other retreats: the St. Clair Flats, the Huron shore, Lake Michigan resorts, Canada and a variety of places. But Marcia Murray had no place to go. She had hung on at Windigo because leaving meant a return to the none-too-comfortable apartment in Detroit, with her summer broken only when invitations called her out of town.

She had let drop, a detail at a time, the change that had taken place in John Taylor; not the change in his attitude toward her, but his new idealism, his new interest, which was foreign to the understanding of those who knew him. They listened, incredulous at first, but Marcia, keyed to save her face, was sharply clever and her suggestions had the intended effect.

"Of course, that's all very fine." Fan Huston had commented, "but, my dear, what has he to offer you?"

"Everything," said Marcia and smiled lightly.

"Everything! Why, he has nothing, unless his father—"

"He offers everything he has," Marcia corrected, "and that of course, is very splendid, but—quite intangible."

She forced a fresh gaiety, her eyes seemed brighter, her laugh more ready and on occasion she put forth a stressed mockery which gave them to understand that it was 295