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He was still a blundering sophomore in a lot of ways. But in others he had definitely changed. He had got drunk after football season before, and had always made a messy, botchy job of it. Now, without the restraining ties of athletics to hold him back, it seemed he was seldom sober. But he was no longer messy about it. He was on his way to being a dipsomaniac, she was sure. And there was no point in it. Clint had everything: money; position in his home town; security and freedom from worry. His father was a bit of a tyrant, of course, but then his mother’s estate had been left to him. He didn’t need his father.
    In Grant’s case—without excusing her brother in the slightest—it was somehow quite different. Grant had pressing worries. At first when he had approached her with them, she had thought they scarcely included her. Now she knew differently. She glanced at Grant almost hostilely. They had always got along fine until—well, until Link. She was certainly doing everything for Grant; and still he wanted more.
    Leona’s low throb of a voice broke into her thoughts, and she turned wearily. “It looks like Clint will soon be drunk enough to go to bed.”
    “What do you mean?” Idell’s voice was rather sharp with impatience.
    Leona’s beautifully impassive face smiled a bit. “Really, Idell, you don’t know?”
    “Don’t know why he has to get drunk to go to bed? Certainly not!”
    “They all feel that way,” Leona said. “All but your uncle, I think.” Her voice held the same amusement as it had when she had spoken to Mark.
    Idell’s hand reached out involuntarily and caught Leona’s jacket sleeve. Her fingers closed about the thin silk and dug into Leona’s soft flesh without her realizing it. She said harshly, “Leona, what is this? I felt it when I came in. You know—tell me! What is happening? What is the matter with everyone?”
    “You mean what has been happening in the three days we’ve been here,” Leona said. Her eyes were mocking but pain lay in them too. “And you’re hurting my arm, Idell.”
    Idell drew her fingers away automatically. She tried to read Leona’s violet eyes but could not. “Tell me,” she said more softly.
    Leona took a cigaret from an ornate ivory-topped box on the stand beside her and flicked a table lighter into flame. She blew a cloud of thin smoke before she answered. “Hatred,” she said. “The place is thick with it.” Her voice was low and controlled, and Idell could not decide whether Leona was including herself with the others. “Hatred and fear. Jealousy. It’s a rotten mess. Everybody’s emotions are all mucked up.” She took a bit of cigaret flake from her tongue with delicate fingers. “I have an idea your charming Mr. Link feels it more than the others.
    Leona’s words had brought a chill, as if a draught of refrigerated air, rank with some nameless, not-to-be-mentioned horror, had blown suddenly across the back of Idell’s neck. She stood up. This was leading her nowhere but to madness. She had to do something or scream.
    “Mix me one, Clint,” she said. She walked across the room to her brother and touched him lightly on the shoulder. He raised his head and blinked at her.
    “Go to bed, boy,” she said. “Sleep it off, huh?”
    His quizzical grin broke through the mask of worry on his face. “Wish I could,” he said. He stood up, took two unsteady steps forward and fell flat on his face.
    Link looked over coldly. “Out again,” he sneered.
    Jeffers brought Idell her drink. She was kneeling beside Grant, feeling idiotically helpless. There was really nothing to do for him. She took the glass Jeffers handed her and automatically sipped from it, and set it down on the arm of Grant’s chair.
    “I’ll take him,” Jeffers offered.
    “Thank you,” Idell said.
    He picked up Grant as if he were a straw-stuffed scarecrow and carried him out of the room and up the broad stairs to the second floor. Idell dropped wearily into