Roberts smiled, the deliberate smile of tolerant understanding.

"One of those days, wasn't it," he commented sympathetically.

"Yes," shortly, "and it seems lately as though that was the only kind I had—seems as though it was not one but an endless succession.... It's all so petty, so confoundedly petty and irritating, and the outlook for the future seems so similar." Of a sudden the speaker arose, selected a bit of rice paper from the mantel, and began rolling a cigarette swiftly. The labor complete he paused, the little white cylinder between his fingers. A moment he stood so, irresolute or intentionally deliberate; without apology or comment he poured a second glass of liquor even full from the red decanter and drank it in silence. "On the square, Darley," he blazed, "I expected a lot from that last book, banked on it; and it's gone flat, like the others." He resumed his seat and the cigarette flamed. "I worked hard on it, did my level best. I don't believe I can ever do any better—and now it's failed miserably. It knocks my pins clean out from under me."

For a time the room was quiet. Roberts did not smile this time, or offer sympathy. The occasion for that had gone by. He merely waited in the fulness of knowledge, until the first hot flood of resentment had cooled, until the inevitable reaction that followed was on. Deliberate, direct to the point, he struck.

"You're satisfied I'm your friend, are you?" he asked abruptly.

The other looked his surprise.

"Emphatically, yes. One of the few I have—it seems to-night."

"And I couldn't possibly have any selfish motive in—in tearing you loose from your moorings?"

"None whatever that I can imagine. Why?"

"You won't take offence either if I advise plainly?"

"No, I'm not a fool—yet. What is it, Darley,—your advice?"

Again Roberts paused, deliberately now, unemotionally.

"My advice then is to chuck it, for to-day and to-morrow and all time: the University, this whole artistic rainbow, chuck it as though it were hot, red hot, and get down to earth. Is that brutally plain enough?"

Unconsciously Armstrong had sat up, expectant. A moment he remained so, taking in the thought, all its implications, its suddenly suggested possibilities; as the full revolutionary significance of the idea came home of a sudden he dropped back in his place. With an effort he smiled.

"To answer your question: yes, I think that is brutally frank enough," he said. A moment longer he remained quiet, thinking, the idea expanding. "Chuck it," he repeated half to himself. "It sounds sensible certainly, to-night particularly." New thoughts came, thoughts like the sifting of dead ashes. "Chuck it," feverishly, "and admit incompetency, cowardice, failure absolute!" For the third time he was on his feet. "No, never. I'll go to the devil first." His fingers were on the red decanter, his brown eyes aflame. "I'll—"

"Armstrong!"

No answer, although the fingers halted.

"Steve!"

Still no answer; but bit by bit the hand retreated.

"Steve," repeated, "sit down, please; please, I say. Let's talk this matter over a little rationally. People have changed their minds before, some few billions of them—and made good afterward too. Have a little patience, man, and sit down. I have a proposition to make to you."

Reluctantly Armstrong obeyed. His face was still unnaturally pale and he was breathing hard, but he obeyed. Back in his seat he waited a second, uncertain; with an effort he faced his companion fairly.

"I—realize I'm an ass, Darley," he began, hesitantly, "and that this sort of thing is melodramatically cheap." The white had left his face now and words were coming more easily. "I won't attempt to apologize, I just simply admit the truth. I've lost my grip this evening."

"Forget it." The voice was commonplace. "Just forget it."

"I can't; I'm not built that way; but I wish you would. If there's one thing I hate more than another it's cheap heroics."

"I know it—and understand. Let it go at that."

"Thank you. All right." It was matter of fact, but such with an effort. "Let's hear your proposition."

As usual Roberts wasted no preface.

"The suggestion is merely in line with what I said before. In so many words, it's to throw up this place of yours in the University and get into business. You'll come into contact with realities that way and realities are eternally opposed to—cobwebs. You'll be happier and more contented, I'm positive, once you get adjusted." He gave his listener a keen look. "I've got an opening in mind right now. Say the word and I'll have the place ready for you the day they appoint your successor in the University. Do you care to consider it?"

"Consider, yes, certainly." Armstrong had lit a pipe and puffed at it shortly. "It's white of you too to offer it. I know it's a good thing or you wouldn't make the suggestion."

"It's not as good as Graham's offer," refuted the other evenly, "places like that don't dangle loose every day; but it will pay you better than a university chair, and it offers possibilities—you anticipate probably,—it's in connection with the new electric line. Between ourselves, Armstrong, this system is going to be a big thing when it's complete. This is a straight tip. I happen to be in a position to know. I also happen to be in position to put you very near the basement, providing you wish to come in with us unhampered." The voice halted meaningly. "That's all I'm at liberty to say now, until you are really in and prove unmistakably—I'll have several things more to tell you then."

"Don't misunderstand me, Darley," he said slowly, "or take offence, please; but—but, to scrape off the veneer, you don't trust me very far even yet, do you?"

There was a moment of silence, time for second thought.

"I can't misunderstand what you mean," said Roberts; "but unfortunately there are others besides yourself for me to consider." The voice was patient, unnaturally so. "I've already talked more than I should."

"If I accepted," unobservant, Armstrong's mind was running on in its own channel, "the place you mean would take my entire time. In a way it would be like Graham's offer. I'd be compelled—you catch the idea, don't you?"

"Yes." This time the other did not amplify.

"You know why I refused that proposition before. We beat the brush pretty thoroughly at that time." It was declination involved, but declination nevertheless unmistakable. "It's a rocky road I'm on, and with occasional mudholes such as—well—such as I fell into to-night; but somehow I can't leave it. I won't try to defend it this time. I'm not in the mood. But when it comes to breaking free, taking a new trail—I simply can't do it, can't!"

"Very well." The voice was non-committal. Waiting, Armstrong thought there would be more to follow, a comment at least; but there was none. Roberts merely leaned back more comfortably in his place, remained so for a minute while like smoke the former subject faded from the horizon. Armstrong grew conscious that he was being observed intently.

"By the way," introduced Roberts, abruptly, "I've decided to give up my residence here in the suburbs. They're remodelling the office building I'm in, you know: adding another floor, an elevator, and one thing and another. I've rented a suite in the addition, to be fitted out after some ideas of my own. They'll begin on it inside a week."

For a moment Armstrong said nothing.

"I'm not particularly surprised," he commented at last, "that is, not surprised that you're going to quit me. It was merely a question of time until this place we're living in here got too small for you. When will you go?"

"The lease gives them a month to deliver."

"A month. All right." There was frost forming in the tone. "I'll try and lassoo another mate in that time. The place isn't particularly pretentious, but, nevertheless, I can't afford to inhabit it alone." He smiled, but it was not his customary companionable smile. "You're on the incline and trudging up steadily, aren't you, old man?"

For an instant Roberts returned the look with the analytic one Armstrong knew so well.

"I trust so," he returned. A pause, again sufficient for second thought. "Looking into the immediate future I see a lot of grinding to be done, and I need machinery to do it with. This down town move is merely part of the campaign."

"I see," Armstrong ignored the explanation, even perverted it intentionally. "And the next installation of machinery will be in stone out on Nob Hill among the other imitation colonial factories. When's that to be, if I may ask?"

Roberts said nothing.

"When's it to be, Darley?" repeated Armstrong. "You have it in mind, haven't you?"

This time Roberts turned, his eyes unsmiling, his lips tight.

"When have I offended you, and how, Armstrong?" he countered directly. "Tell me that."

"Offended!" Roused out of his ill humor Armstrong flushed penitently. "You've never offended, never. On the contrary, you're only too patient with my tantrums." He jerked himself together impulsively. "I didn't mean anything by that at all. I'm blooming glad to see you prosper. I always knew you would."

"The imitation colonial—factory then—" Roberts recalled slowly.

"Just a dream, a fancy, an air castle."

"No, a reality—I hope."

"What?—a miracle! But how about the tape line?"

"I repeat: I hope. Hope always refers to the future—the indefinite future."

Armstrong smiled broadly, shrugged. Banter tingled on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason remained unspoken. Abruptly as it had arisen the subject vanished beneath the surface. Merely the memory of that suggestion of things to come remained.

In the silence Roberts glanced at the clock and arose preparatory to bed. Watching the familiar action, a new thought sprang full-fledged to Armstrong's brain, a sudden appreciation of the unconscious dependence he had grown to feel on the other man. The thought took words.

"On the square, old man," he said soberly, "I hate to have you go. It'll be beastly lonely here without you to sit down on me and make me feel foolish." He gestured in mute eloquence. "It means the end between you and me the moment you pack your trunk. We may both put up a bluff—but just the same it's the end."

Roberts halted thoughtfully where he stood.

"The end? I wonder—and who will be to blame?"

"Neither of us," swiftly. "It was inevitable. We'll simply drift apart. You recall I prophesied once before—"

"Yes, I recall."

Armstrong started involuntarily. Another memory had intruded.

"You remember—something else I predicted, do you?"

A slow smile formed on Roberts' lips.

"You said that sometime we'd hate each other, in the same measure that we were friends now."

"Yes; and it's so. I feel it; why I don't know, can't imagine—yet. But it will come about as surely as to-morrow will come." He looked at his companion steadily, unsmilingly prophetic. "Good-bye, friend Darley Roberts. You're going—and you won't return. Good-bye."

An instant Roberts stood as he was, motionless; then he turned swiftly.

"You're morbid to-night, Armstrong," he returned slowly. "In the morning the sun will shine and the world will look very different. As for my leaving—you'll find another man who'll make a lot better mate than I am. I'm not a good fellow in the least."

"I know it," bluntly. "That's why you're good for me." Unconsciously his glance travelled to the mantel, and shifted hurriedly. "I'm a kind of clinging vine, I guess. To change the figure of speech, I need a stiff rudder to keep me headed straight to windward. I'll—miss you," simply.

Roberts hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully.

"We can't very well always be together, though," he suggested at last slowly.

"No, we can't. I realize it. It's—Pardon an ass and go to bed, old man."

For perhaps half a minute Roberts stood there, the fire from the open grate lighting his face, his big capable hands loose at his sides. He made no motion to leave, nor for a space to speak; characteristically abrupt, he turned, facing his companion directly.

"Armstrong," he said, "I can't work up to things delicately and have them seemingly happen by chance. Nature didn't endow me with that ability. I have to come out with a broadside shot or not at all. I'm going to do so now. Why don't you get married? Miss Gleason will be a better rudder immeasurably than I am."

Involuntarily Armstrong flushed, slowly the color faded. He said nothing.

"I know I'm intruding and offending," went on the other; "you show that, but you said a bit ago I was your friend and the thing is on my mind. Believe this at least: I was never more your friend than when I advise the move now. I repeat: why don't you get married, at once?"

"Why? You know why, Darley. It's the old reason—the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. They still hold the fort."

"No, not for you—unless you let them. Forgive another broadside. If you get pinched temporarily let a friend be of service. I'm not afraid to trust you. Anyway I chance it. We all have to chance something for happiness. Don't delay any longer, man, don't!"

"Don't?" Of a sudden Armstrong glanced up and met the other's look steadily. "Don't?" he repeated. "Why do you say that, please?"

A second Roberts met the lifted questioning eyes.

"Because I meant it," he said. "Please don't ask me to say more."

"But I do ask it," pressed Armstrong, stubbornly. "You meant something particular by that, something I have the right to know."

"Won't you consider what I suggested," asked Roberts in a low tone; "merely consider it?"

"Perhaps after you tell me what you meant. Why 'don't,' please?"

On the cosy room fell silence,—the silence of midnight; the longest silence of that interrupted understanding. For a long while Roberts stood precisely as he was; he started walking, measuring the breadth of the room and back again; something the watcher had never known him to do before, never in the years of acquaintance, no matter what the uncertainty or difficulty confronting. A second time he followed the trail back and forth, until, watching him, the spectator felt at last something like terror of the thing he had deliberately conjured and that now was inevitably coming very near; for at last Roberts had halted, was standing over him.

"In all the time that I've known you, Armstrong," said a voice, a new voice, "you've asked my advice repeatedly, asked the reason for it, insisted that I explain minutely, and disregarded it absolutely. I've tried to be honest with you each time, tried to be of service; and still you've disregarded. It's been the same to-night, the old, old story. I've been dead in earnest, tried to be unselfish, and still you question and doubt and insist." A second the voice halted, the speaker glancing down, not analytically or whimsically, as usual, but of a sudden icy cold. "You insist now, against my request, and once more I'm going to humor you. You wish to know what I meant by 'don't' delay. I meant just this, man, just this and no more: Chances for happiness come to us all sometime in our lives. They knock at our door and wait for us to open. Sometimes, not often, they knock twice; but they don't keep on knocking forever. There are a multitude of other doors in the world and, after a while, opportunity, our opportunity, goes by, and never returns; no matter how loudly we call. Is that clear enough, man?"

"In the abstract, yes." Armstrong's lips were dry and he moistened them unconsciously. "In the concrete, though, as it applies to my—happiness—"

"God, you're an egotist, Armstrong! Is it possible you can't understand, or won't?"

Slowly, with an effort, Armstrong arose; his face of a sudden gray, his hands fastened to the back of his chair.

"You mean to suggest that Elice," he began, "that Elice—You dare to suggest that to me?"

"Dare?"

They looked at each other, not three feet apart.

"Dare?" Roberts repeated.

"Darley!"

"Don't! I've argued, advised, used persuasion—everything. Take that as a warning if you wish, or disregard it if you choose. I'm done."

On the chair back the fingers locked tighter and tighter, until they grew white. Tardy comprehension was coming at last.

"You mean to warn me," Armstrong scarcely recognized his own voice, "that you yourself—"

"Yes, I myself. That's why I warned you."

"You yourself," he repeated, "whom I introduced and took with me as my friend, my best friend—you—Judas!"

"Re-introduced." Roberts' eyes were as steady as his voice. "Re-introduced—mark that. Miss Gleason has forgotten, but she was the first girl I met in the University, when I had one suit of frayed clothes to my name, and my stock was below par. Miss Gleason has forgotten, I say, had no reason to remember; but I—Nor—Judas; drop that for all time.... I've warned you, you understand."

"Darley!"

"No—Roberts. I'm no hypocrite. You've precipitated this understanding, compelled it; but perhaps it's as well. I'll move out of here to-morrow instead of in a month, if you wish. Do you wish it?"

Bit by bit the hands on the chair back, that had been so tense, loosened, and Armstrong sank back in his seat, his face turned away.

"I don't know—yet." His fingers were twitching aimlessly. "I want to think.... You, of all men, you!" He turned, his eyes ablaze, his voice thick. "Yes, go to-morrow, damn you! and as for your warning, do as you please, get between us if you can." He laughed raspingly. "I'll delay—dangle, you catch that—as long as I see fit. I dare you."

An instant Roberts stood as he was; slowly and without a word he started for his room. As he did so Armstrong arose swiftly and, all but gropingly, his hand sought the red decanter on the mantel. "I dare you," he repeated blindly, "dare you!"

"Armstrong!" Roberts had halted, looking back. "Not for any one's sake but your own—think a second, man."

"To hell with you and thought!"

Without a sound this time or another glance the door to Roberts' room opened and closed and Armstrong was alone.



CHAPTER VI

A WARNING

With a dexterity born of experience Harry Randall looked up from his labor of separating the zone of carbon from the smaller segment of chop that had escaped the ravages of a superheated frying-pan and smiled across the table at his wife.

"On the contrary," he said, refuting a pessimistic observation previously made by the person addressed, "I think you're doing fine. I can see a distinct improvement every month. On the whole you're really becoming an admirable cook."

"Undoubtedly!" The voice dripped with irony. "That very chop, for instance—"

"Is merely a case in point," amiably. "Some people, unscientific people, might contend that it was overdone; but the initiated—that's us—know better. Meat, particularly from the genus hog, should always be well cooked. It obviates the possibility of trichina infection absolutely."

"And those biscuits," equivocally. "I'll wager they'd sink like steel billets."

Her husband inspected the articles designated with a judicial eye.

"Better so. We're thus saved the temptation of eating them. All statistics prove that hot biscuits and dyspepsia—"

"The salad, then," wearily.

"Hygienic beyond a doubt. The superabundance of seasoning to which you doubtless refer may be unusual; nevertheless, it's a leaning in the right direction. Condiments of all kinds tend to stimulate the flow of the gastric juice; and that, you know, from your physiology, is what does the digestive business."

Margery Randall laughed, against her will.

"And last of all the coffee," she suggested.

"Frankly, as coffee, it is a little peculiar; but considered as hot water merely, it leaves nothing to be desired; and science teaches again that, like condiments, hot water—"

The two laughed together; temporarily the atmosphere cleared.

"Seriously, Harry," asked the girl, "do you really think I'll ever get so I can cook things that aren't an insult?" She swept the indigestible repast between them with a hopeless look. "I'm trying my best, but at times like this I get discouraged."

"Certainly you will," with conviction. "Now this bread, for instance," he held up a slice to illustrate, "is as good as any one can make."

"And unfortunately was one of the few things that I didn't make. It's bakery bread, of course, silly."

Randall dropped the offending staff of life as though it were hot.

"These cookies, then." He munched one with the pleasure of an epicure. "They're good thoroughly."

"Elice Gleason baked them for me to-day," icily. "She was here all the afternoon."

An instant of silence followed; glancing half sheepishly across the board Randall saw something that made him arise from his seat abruptly.

"Margery, little girl," his arms were around her. "Don't take it so seriously. It's all a joke, honest." With practised skill he kissed away the two big tears that were rapidly gathering. "Of course you'll learn; every one has to have practice; and it's something you never did before, something entirely new."

"That's just the point," repeated the girl. The suddenly aroused tears had ceased to flow, but she still looked the image of despondency. "It's something I've never had to do, and I'll never learn. I've been trying for practically a year now and things get worse and worse."

"Not worse," hopefully; "you merely think so. You're just a bit discouraged and tired to-night—that's all."

"I know it and, besides, I can't help it." She was winking hard again against two fresh tears. "I spoiled two cakes this afternoon. Elice tried to show me how to make them; and I burned my finger"—she held up a swaddled member for inspection—"horribly. I just can't do this housework, Harry, just simply can't."

"Yes, you can." Once more the two teary recruits vanished by the former method. "You can do anything."

The girl shook her head with a determination premeditated.

"No; I repeat that I've tried, and it's been a miserable failure. I—think we'll have to have the maid back again, for good."

"The maid!" Randall laughed, but not so spontaneously as was normal. "We don't want a maid bothering around, Margery. We want to be alone." He had a brilliant thought, speedily reduced to action. "How could I treat injured fingers like this properly if there was a maid about?"

"There wouldn't be any burned fingers then," refuted the girl. Intentionally avoiding the other's look, she arose from the neglected dinner-table decisively and, the man following slowly, led the way to the living-room. "Joking aside," she continued as she dropped into a convenient seat, "I mean it, seriously. I've felt this way for a long time, and to-day has been the climax. I simply won't spend my life cooking and dusting and—and washing dishes. Life's too short."

From out the depths of the big davenport Harry Randall inspected steadily the rebellious little woman opposite. He did not answer at once, it was not his way; but he was thinking seriously. To say that the present moment was a surprise would be false. For long, straws had indicated the trend of the wind, and he was not blind. There was an excuse for the attitude, too. He was just enough to realize that. As she had said, she was born differently, bred differently, educated to a life of ease. And he, Harry Randall, had known it from the first, knew it when he married her. Just now, to be sure, he was financially flat, several months ahead of his meagre salary; but that did not alter the original premise, the original obligation. He remembered this now as he looked at her, remembered and decided—the only way it seemed to him possible an honorable man could decide.

"Very well, Margery," he said gravely, "you may have the maid back, of course, if you wish it. I had hoped we might get along for a time, while we were paying for the things in the house, anyway; but"—he looked away—"I guess we'll manage it somehow."

"Somehow!" Margery glanced at him with only partial comprehension. "Is it really as bad as that, as hopeless?"

Randall smiled the slow smile that made his smooth face seem fairly boyish.

"I don't know exactly what you mean by bad, or hopeless; but it's a fact that so far we've been spending a good deal more than my income."

"I'm sorry, dear, really." It was the contrition of one absolutely unaccustomed to consideration of ways and means, uncomprehending. "Particularly so just now with winter coming on and—and girls, you know, have to get such a lot of things for winter."

This time Randall did not smile; neither did he show irritation.

"What, for instance?" he inquired directly.

"Oh, a tailored suit for one thing, and a winter hat, and high shoes, and—and a lot of things."

"Do you really need them, Margery?" It was prosaic pathos, but pathos nevertheless. "There's coal to be bought, you know, and my life insurance comes due next month. I don't want to seem to be stingy, you know that; but—" he halted miserably.

"Need them!" It was mild vexation. "Of course I need them, silly. A girl can't go around when the thermometer's below zero with net shirtwaists and open-work stockings."

"Of course," quickly. With an effort the smile returned. "Order what you need. I'll take care of that too"—he was going to repeat "somehow," then caught himself—"as soon as I can," he substituted.

The girl looked at him smilingly.

"Poor old Harry, henpecked Harry," she bantered gayly. Crossing over, her arms went around his neck. "Have an awful lot of troubles, don't you, professor man!"

The argument was irresistible and Randall capitulated.

"No, none whatever," he answered, as he was expected to answer; and once more sweet peace rested on the house of Randall.

Back in her place opposite once more Margery looked at her husband seriously, a pucker of perplexity on her smooth face.

"By the way," she digressed, "I've been wondering for some time now if anything's wrong with Elice and Steve. Has he hinted anything to you?"

"No; why?"

"Oh, I don't know anything definite; but he's been here three evenings the last week, you know, Sunday evening for one at that, and it looks queer."

"I've noticed it too," admitted Randall, "and he's coming again this evening. He asked permission and I couldn't well refuse. Not that I don't like to have him come," quickly, "but it interferes with my lectures next morning."

"And with our own evenings. I—just wish he wouldn't come so often."

Randall said nothing, but unconsciously he was stroking the bald spot already appearing on the crown of his head in a way he had when worried.

"And, besides," justified Margery, "it isn't treating Elice right. I think it's a shame."

This time the man looked up.

"She didn't say anything, intimate anything, I hope?" he hesitated.

"Of course not. It isn't her way. She's—queer for a woman, Elice is; she never gets confidential, no matter how good an opportunity you offer." A pause followed that spoke volumes. "Agnes Simpson, though, says there is something the matter—with Steve at least. They're talking about it in the department."

"Talking about what, Margery?" soberly. "He's a friend of ours, you know."

"Yes, I know," the voice was swift with a pent-up secret, "and we've tried hard to be nice to him; but, after all, we're not to blame that he—drinks!"

"Margery!" It was open disapproval this time, a thing unusual for Harry Randall. "We mustn't listen to such gossip, either of us. Steve and I have been chums for years and years and—we simply mustn't listen to such things at all."

For an instant the girl was silent; then the brown head tossed rebelliously.

"Well, I can't help it if people talk; and it isn't fair of you to suppose that I pass it on either—except to you. You know that I—" she checked herself. "It isn't as though Agnes was the only one either," she defended. "I've heard it several times lately." Inspiration came and she looked at her husband directly. "Honest, Harry, haven't you heard it too?"

The man hesitated, and on the instant solid ground vanished from beneath his feet.

"Yes, I have," he admitted weakly. "It's a burning shame too that people will concoct—" He halted suddenly, listening. His eyes went to the clock. "I had no idea it was so late," he digressed as the bell rang loudly. "That's Steve now. I know his ring."

Alone in the up-stairs study, which with its folding-bed was likewise spare sleeping-room and again smoking-room,—Margery had not yet surrendered to the indiscriminate presence of tobacco smoke,—Steve Armstrong ignored the chair Randall had proffered and remained standing, his hands deep in his trousers' pockets, a look new to his friend—one restless, akin to reckless—on his usually good-humored face. Contrary again to precedent his dress was noticeably untidy, an impression accentuated by a two-days' growth of beard and by neglected linen. That something far from normal was about to transpire Randall knew at a glance, but courteously seemed not to notice. Instead, with a familiar wave, he indicated the cigar-jar he kept on purpose for visitors and took a pipe himself.

"I haven't had my after-dinner smoke yet," he commented. "Better light up with me. It always tastes better when one has company."

"Thanks." Armstrong made a selection absently and struck a match; but, the unlighted cigar in his fingers, let the match burn dead. "I don't intend to bother you long," he plunged without preface. "I know you want to work." He glanced nervously at the door to see that it was closed. "I just wanted to have a little talk with you, a—little heart-to-heart talk."

"Yes." Randall's face showed no surprise, but his pipe bowl was aglow and his free hand was caressing his bald spot steadily.

"Frankly, old man," the other had fallen back into his former position, his hands concealed, his attitude stiffly erect, "I'm in the deuce of a frame of mind to-night—and undecided." He laughed shortly. "You're the remedy that occurred to me."

"Yes," Randall repeated, this time with the slow smile, "I am a sort of remedy. Sit down and tell me about it. I'm receptive at least."

"Sit down! I can't, Harry." The restless look became one of positive repugnance. "I haven't been able to for a half-hour at a stretch for a week."

"Try it anyway," bluntly. "It won't do you any harm to try."

"Nor any good either. I know." He threw himself into a seat with a nervous scowl upon his face. "I haven't been able to do any real work for an age, which is worse," he continued. "My lectures lately have been a disgrace to the college. No one knows it better than myself."

A moment Randall hesitated, but even yet he did not put an inquiry direct.

"Yes?" he suggested again.

"I'm stale, I guess, or have lost my nerve or—or something." Armstrong smiled,—a crooked smile that failed to extinguish the furrows on his forehead. "By the way, have you got a little superfluous nerve lying about that you could stake me with?"

Randall echoed the laugh, because it seemed the only possible answer, but that was all.

In the silence that followed Armstrong looked at his friend opposite, the nervous furrow between his eyes deepening.

"I suppose you're wondering," he began at last, "just what's the matter with me and what I want of you. Concerning the first, there's a lot I might say, but I won't; I'll spare you. As to what I want to ask of you—Frankly, Harry, straight to the point and conventional reticence aside, ought I to marry or oughtn't I?" He caught the other's expression and answered it quickly. "I know this is a peculiar thing to ask and seems, looking at it from some angles, something I shouldn't ask; but you know all the circumstances between Elice and me and, in a way, our positions are a good deal similar. Just what do you think? Don't hesitate to tell me exactly."

In his seat Randall shifted uncomfortably; to gain time he filled his pipe afresh,—a distinct dissipation for the man of routine that he was.

"Frankly, as you suggest, Steve," he answered finally, "I'd rather not discuss the subject, rather not advise. It's—you know why—so big and personal."

"I realize that and have apologized already for bringing it up; but I can't decide myself—I've tried; and Elice—there are reasons why she can't assist now either. It's—" he made a motion to rise, but checked himself—"it's something that has to be decided now too."

"Has to?" Randall's eyes behind the big lens of his glasses were suddenly keen. "Why, Steve?"

"Because it's now or never," swiftly. "I've—we've hesitated until we can't delay any longer. I'm not sure that it's not been too long already, that's why Elice can't figure." He drew himself up with an effort, held himself still. "We've crossed the dividing line, Elice and I, and we're drifting apart. Just how the thing has come about I don't know; but it's true. We're on different roads somehow and we're getting farther apart every month." He sprang to his feet, his face turned away. "Soon—It's simply hell, Harry!"

Randall sat still; recollecting, he laughed,—a laugh that he tried to make natural.

"Oh, pshaw!" He laughed again. "You're mixing up some of the novels you're writing with real life. This sort of thing is nonsense, pure nonsense."

"No, it's so," flatly. "I've tried hard enough to think it different, but I couldn't because it is so. It's hell, I say!"

"Don't you love her, man?" abruptly.

"Love her!" Armstrong wheeled, his face almost fierce. "Of course I love her. A hundred times yes. I'm a cursed fool over her."

"Sit down then and tell me just what's on your mind. You're magnifying a mole-hill of some kind into a snow-capped peak. Sit down, please. You—irritate me that way."

A second Armstrong hesitated. His face a bit flushed, he obeyed.

"That's better." The brusqueness was deliberately intentional. "Now out with it, clear the atmosphere. I'm listening."

Armstrong looked at his friend a bit suspiciously; but the mood was too strong upon him to cease now even if he would.

"Just what do you wish to know?" he asked in tentative prelude. "Give me a clew."

"What you wish to tell me," evenly. "Neither more nor less."

"You have no curiosity?"

Randall made no comment this time, merely waited.

"Very well, then, if you have no curiosity.... I don't know how much to tell you anyway, what you don't already know. As I said when I first came in, I didn't have it in mind to bore you at all, I just wanted to ask your opinion—" The speaker halted and hurriedly lit the cigar he had been holding. "To jump into the thick of it, I got a little letter from the president to-day, a little—warning." Armstrong smoked fiercely until the flame lit up his face. "It's the bitterest humiliation of my life, Harry, the last straw!"



CHAPTER VII

REBELLION

For a moment Harry Randall said nothing, then deliberately he glanced up and met his friend's eyes direct.

"Begin at the beginning and tell me the whole story," he said soberly. "I had no idea the thing was really so serious."

"Well, it is, take that for granted. It's likely to be the end, so far as I am concerned."

"Cut that out, Steve," shortly. "It's melodramatic and cheap. Things can't be so bad if we look at them sanely." He hesitated, and went on with distinct effort. "To begin with, I'm going to ask you a question. I hate it, you know that without my telling you, but things have gone too far to mince matters evidently. I've heard a number of times lately that you were drinking. Is it so?"

"Who told you that?" hotly.

"Never mind who. I tell you I never believed a word of it until you mentioned the president's warning. Now—Is it so?"

Armstrong's face went red,—red to the roots of his hair,—then slowly shaded white until it was ghastly pale.

"Yes; it's useless, it seems, to deny it. That others knew, were talking about it, though—It's true, Harry. I admit it."

Slowly, slowly, Randall knocked the ashes out of the pipe-bowl and put it away in a drawer of the table.

"Very well, Steve. I shan't moralize. None of us men are so good we can afford to begin throwing stones.... Let's go back a bit to the beginning. There must be one somewhere, a cause. Just what's the trouble, old man?"

"Trouble!" It was the spark to tinder, the lead at last. "Everything, Harry, everything." A halt for composure. "I suppose if I were to pick out one single thing, though, that was worse than another, it's my writing. I think, I know, that's what brought on the whole cursed mess. Until my last book failed I had hope and the sun shone. When that went down—down like a lump of lead—I haven't been able to do a thing, care for a thing since. My brain simply quit work too. It died, and the best of me died with it."

"And you began to drink."

"Yes, like a fish. Why not, since I was dead and it helped me to forget?"

"Steve! I hate to preach, it doesn't become me; but—"

"Preach if you want to; you can't hurt my feelings now." Armstrong grew calm, for the first time that evening. "When a fellow has worked as I have worked for years, and hoped against hope, and still hoped on and worked on after failure and failure and failure three times repeated—No, don't worry about hurting my feelings, Harry. Say what you please."

"I wasn't going to hurt your feelings," evenly; "I was only going to preach a little. I merely wanted to take exception to that forgetting business. If you'll just hold hard for a bit you'll forget normally, not artificially. Another six months and you'll be hard at another scheme, developing it; and the way you feel now—It'll be a joke then, a sort of nightmare to laugh over."

"Never.... Don't get restless; I'm not irresponsible now. I'm merely telling you. I've been asleep and dreaming for a long time, but at last I'm awake. Come what may, and truly as I'm telling you now, I'll never write another novel. I couldn't if I wanted to—I've tried and know; and I wouldn't if I could. There's a limit to everything, and the limit of my patience and endurance is reached. I'm done for now and for all time." The voice was not excited now or unnaturally tense, but normal, almost conversational.

"For ten years I've fought the good fight. Every spare hour of that time that I could muster I've worked. I've lain awake night after night and night after night tossing and planning and struggling for a definite end. The thing got to be a sort of religion to me. I convinced myself that it was my work in the big scheme, my allotted task, and I tried faithfully to do it. I never spared myself. I dissected others, of course; but I dissected myself most, clear to the bone. I even took a sort of joy in it when it hurt most, for I felt it was my contribution and big. I'm not bragging now, mind. I'm merely telling you as it was. I've gone on doing this for ten years, I say. When I failed again I tried harder still. I still believed in myself—and others. Recognition, appreciation, might be delayed, but eventually it would come, it must; for this was my work,—to please others, to amuse them, to carry them temporarily out of the rut of their work-a-day lives and make them forget. I believed this, I say, believed and hoped and waited and worked on until the last few months. Then—I told you what happened. Then—" For the first time the speaker paused. He shrugged characteristically. "But what's the use of disturbing the corpse. I've simply misread the signs in the sky—that's all. I couldn't produce a better novel than I've written if I had the longevity of the Wandering Jew and wrote to the end—for I've done my best. The great public that I've torn myself to pieces to please has seen the offering and passed it by. They will have none of it—and they're the arbiters." He shrugged again, the narrow shoulders eloquent. "So be it. I accept; but I offer no more. For all time, to finality, I'm done, done!"

"Even if some of your books should win?"

"If every one of them should do so. If half a dozen publishers came to me personally and begged me to resume work. I may be a poor artist, may lack completely the artistic subservience to or superiority to discouragement, probably I do; but at least I know I'm human. I'm like a well in the desert that's been pumped empty and left never a mark on the surrounding sand. I couldn't produce again if I wanted to; I'm drained dry."

Randall said nothing. He knew this other man.

"I tell you I'm awake, Harry, at last, and see things as they are; things now so childishly obvious that it seems incredible I could have gone on so long without recognizing them. People prate about appreciation of artists of various kinds and of their work, grow maudlin over it by artificial light in the small hours of the night. And how do they demonstrate it? Once in a while, the isolated exception that proves the rule, by recognizing and rewarding the genius in his lifetime. Once in a very, very long time, I say. Mind, I don't elevate myself as a genius. I'm merely speaking as an observer who's awakened and knows. As a rule what do they do? Let him struggle and work and eat his heart out in obscurity and without recognition. Let him starve himself body and soul. After he's dead, after a year or a hundred years, after there is no possibility of his receiving the reward or the inspiration, they arouse. His fame spreads. His name becomes a household word. They desecrate his grave, if they can find it, by hanging laurel on his tombstone. They tear the wall-paper from the house where he once chanced to live into ribbons for souvenirs. If he happens to be a painter the picture that brought him enough perhaps to keep body and soul together for a month is fought for until eventually it sells for a fortune. If he was a writer they bid for a scrap of his manuscript more than he received for his whole work. There are exceptions, I say; but even exceptions only prove the rule. Think over the names of the big artists, the big geniuses. How many of them are alive or were appreciated in their own lives? How many living to-day compare in the public appreciation with those dead? None of them, practically, none. And still do you or does any other sane person fancy that human beings are degenerating every generation, that artistic genius is decadent? It's preposterous, unthinkable! It merely points the moral that history repeats itself. Some place, somewhere, the greatest artist in the world is painting the greatest picture the world has ever known—and this same world passes him by. It must be so, for human beings advance with every generation inevitably. Some place, somewhere, the biggest writer of all time is writing the biggest book—and his neighbors smile because his clothes are rusty. This is the reward they get in their own day and their own generation, when it would sweeten their lives, make them worth living. The fellow who invents a mouse-trap or a safety razor or devises a way of sticking two hogs where one was killed before, inherits the earth, sees his name and fame heralded in every periodical; while the other, the real man—God, it's unbelievable, neither more nor less; and still it's true to the last detail. Again, it's all civilization, the civilization we brag of; magnificent twentieth century civilization!"

Still Randall said nothing, still waited.

Armstrong hesitated, drumming on the arm of his chair with his slender fingers. But the lull was only temporary, the storm not past; the end was not yet.

"I suppose," he forged on, "the work should be its own reward, its own justification. At least would-be artists are told so repeatedly. Whenever one rebels at the injustice the world is there with this sophistry, feeds him with it as a nurse feeds pap to a crying child, until he's full and temporarily comatose. But just suppose for an instant that the same argument were used in any other field of endeavor. Suppose, for instance, you told the prospector who'd spent years searching for and who'd finally found a gold mine that his reward should be in the mere knowledge of having found it, the feeling of elation that he had added to the sum total of the world's wealth, and that he should relinquish it intact as a public trust. Just preach this gospel, and how long would you escape the mad-house? Or the architect who designs and superintends the construction of a sky-scraper. Take him aside and argue with him that the artistic satisfaction of having conceived that great pile of stone and steel should repay him for his work, that to expect remuneration was sordid and disgusting. Do you think he'd sign a certificate to the effect that you were normal and sane? And still how is it with a writer in this the twentieth century,—century of enlightenment and of progress? First of all he must go through the formative period, which means years. Nothing, even genius, springs without preparation into full bloom. No matter how good the idea, how big the thought, it must be moulded by a mastery of technique and a proficiency that only experience can give. And meanwhile he must live. How? No matter. The suggestion is mundane. Let him settle that for himself. At last, perhaps, if he has the divine spark, he gets a hearing. We'll suppose he accomplishes his purpose,—pleases them, makes them think, or laugh, or forget temporarily, as the case may be. In a way he has made an opening and arrived. And yet, though an artist, he is, first of all, a human being, an animal. The animal part of him demands insistently the good things of life. If he is normal he wants a home and a family of his own; and wants that home as good as that of his neighbor who practises law or makes soda biscuits. With this premise what do the public, who don't know him personally but whom he serves just the same, do? The only way they can show their appreciation tangibly is by buying his work; giving him encouragement, making it possible to live and to write more. I repeat I know this is all mundane and commonplace and unaesthetic, but it's reality. And do they give this encouragement, buy themselves, and let him make his tiny royalty which in turn enables him to live, pass an appreciation on to their friends and induce them to buy? In a fractional proportion of times, yes. In the main, John, whom the writer has worked a year, day and night, to reach, by chance meets his friend Charley. 'By the way,' he remarks, 'I picked up that novel of Blank's lately. It's good, all right, all right; kept me up half the night to finish it. I want you to read it, old man. It's just your style. No use to buy it, though,' he adds hurriedly. 'Drop in sometime and I'll lend it to you.' Of a sudden he remembers. 'Come to think of it, though, I believe just now it's lent to Phil—or was it Dick who took it. The story's a corker and they've both had it.' He thinks again hard and remembers. 'I have it now. Dick gave it to Sam; he told me so. Get it from him yourself. I know you'll like it.' And so the lending goes on so long as the covers hold together. Meanwhile the writer, away off somewhere waiting and hoping and watching the sale, in return for the pleasure he gives John and Charley and Phil and Dick and Sam and the rest, and in consideration of that year of work and weariness and struggle, gets enough perhaps to buy a meal at a Chinese restaurant. This is appreciation, I say, enlightened twentieth century appreciation; and the beauty of it is that every one of that company who get his work for nothing feel that by their praise and by reading his work they've given that writer, who can't possibly know anything about it, all that he could possibly desire." For the first time that evening Armstrong paused to laugh. "Oh, it's humorous, all right, when one stops to consider and appreciate! Just suppose, though, in the name of fair play, some one had suggested to John that he throw that copy of his in the furnace where no one could possibly borrow it, and then go on telling his appreciation. Just supposing some one had suggested that! Do you fancy John would have considered that person wholly sane? And still that writer, besides being an artist, is an animal with a stomach and needs a home to live in, and maybe is human enough to have burdened himself with a wife and—and children—"

"Steve, confound it, you've gone on long enough."

"I know it—too long."

"It doesn't do any good to rail at something you can't help, that no one can help."

"Admitted. I'm just talking to myself—and you. It's all the same."

"You've never starved yet or gone without clothes, so far as I know."

"Starved, no. I had soup at my boarding-house for lunch again to-day—soup with carrots in it. Hungry—I don't know. This is a big world we're in and I've never had the chance even to look over the horizon yet. Hungry? I've been hungry for—Elice for years, and I don't dare—Hunger is awfully near to starvation sometimes, friend Harry."

Harry Randall squirmed. He saw it coming—it!

"Oh, things will come all right if you'll be patient," he said—and halted himself for the trite optimism.

"Elice won't; for she's gone already while I've been patient—gone and left me hungry."

"Nonsense. Rot, plain rot!"

"No, reality, plain reality. She probably wouldn't admit it yet, not even to herself, maybe doesn't know it yet herself; but I know. It's been coming on a long time. I see it all now."

Randall made a wry face. That was all.

"Yes, it's true, Harry, God's truth. I asked you a peculiar question a while ago,—asked whether I ought to marry. I didn't mean it; I was just maudlin. I know without asking that I mustn't. Even if Elice would consent—and I think she would consent yet, she's game—I mustn't. I'm waking up more all the time."

"Steve, you're maddening—impossible. I tell you, Elice will never change. You know it without my telling you."

"Yes, I know. It's I who have changed." He remembered suddenly. "Yes; it's I who have changed," he repeated slowly.

"Well, you'll change back again then." The effort to be severe and commonplace was becoming cumulatively difficult. "You must."

"Must change back—and marry Elice?"

"Yes," desperately.

"No, not if by a miracle I could change back."

"Why? For heaven's sake, why? Don't be a fool, man."

"Why?" without heat. "Do you really wish to know why?"

"Yes."

Armstrong deliberated.

"You yourself are one reason, friend Harry."

"I—I don't understand."

"Yes, you do. I'm not without observation. You yourself wouldn't advise me to marry now."

"Steve!"

"You wouldn't, and you know you wouldn't. No offence. We're simply looking things squarely in the eye. It's merely the tragedy of pennies among evolved humans who require dollars to live—and must live. Am I not right, friend of mine?"

No severity this time, no commonplace—nothing.

"I repeat, no offence; just square in the eye. Am I not right?"

"Right? I don't know. I can't answer." A sudden blaze. "You have no right to suggest—"

"No. Pardon me." Armstrong's face worked in spite of himself. "Forget that I did suggest, Harry. It was brutal of me."

Randall said nothing.

"But with Elice and myself it's different. I've awakened in time. Providence, perhaps, sometimes when we least expect it—"

"Steve!" Randall had glanced up quickly, self for the moment in abeyance. "What do you intend doing, tell me that?"

"Doing?" It was almost surprise. "Have you any honest doubt yet, after what I've told you?" He halted, scrutinizing his friend's face, and seemed satisfied. "I'm going to release her; release her unqualifiedly. I can at least be man enough to do that."

"And if you do—what of yourself?"

Armstrong smiled forcedly, a slow, mirthless smile. "Never mind about myself. I've glowed genially for a long time, tried after my own fashion to warm a hearth somewhere; but at last I'm burned out, nothing but cinders. Never mind about myself. The discussion is futile."

Randall hesitated; then he gestured impotently.

"Elice, then—For her sake at least—"

"It's for her sake I'll do it, because she'll never do it herself. I repeat, I can at least be man enough to do that much for her, make amends to that extent." He looked straight before him, seeing nothing. "She'll be happy yet, when I'm well out of the way."

"Steve!" Argument would not come, rebuttal; only that cry that acknowledged its own helplessness. "I can't bear to have things go that way. I know you both so well, like you so much."

"I realize that," dully; "but it's not your fault,—not any one's fault in particular that I can see."

Randall did not gesture this time. Even that avenue seemed barred.

"If I could only say something to influence you, to convince you—something adequate."

"There's nothing to be said that I can see, or done, for that matter. It's like a church catechism, cut and dried generations ahead."

It was the final word, and for a long time they sat there silent, unconscious of the passing minutes; alike gazing at the blank wall which circumstance had thrown in the way, alike looking for an opening where opening there was none. At last, when the silence had become unbearable, Randall roused, and with an effort forced a commonplace.

"Anyway, as yet you're reckoning without your host—in this case Elice," he formalized. "After you've seen her—"

"It will merely be ended then—that is all."

"I'm not so sure, even yet."

"I repeat that I know, know to finality. Some things one can't question when they're awake. Moreover, I have a reason for knowing."

It was a new note, that last comment; a note of repression where all before had been unrepressed. Moreover, it was a lead intentionally offered.

"What is it, Steve?" asked the other simply. "There's something yet which you haven't told me."

"Yes." Once more Armstrong's eyes were on the wall straight before him, the wall he did not see. "I merely suggested it a bit ago. I said Elice had drifted away while I was being patient. At first that drifting was very slow, so slow that I didn't realize it myself; during the last few months she's been going fast." The speaker moistened his lips unconsciously; but, watching, the other noticed. "Things seldom happen in this world without a reason, and they didn't in this case." Suddenly, without warning, he whirled, met the other eye to eye. "Do I need to suggest more?" he asked steadily.

"Suggest—more?" Randall's look was blank. "I don't believe I understand."

"I mean concerning—the reason I mentioned. Haven't you noticed anything yourself, had any intimation?"

"I know nothing, have noticed nothing."

"No?" Armstrong's scrutiny was merciless, all but incredulous. "Nothing concerning Elice and—and Darley Roberts—not a whisper?"

Against his will Randall's eyes dropped. At last he understood.

"You have heard. I thought so." Armstrong fumbled with his cuffs, played for time, which meant for self-control. "I'm glad. It saves my—explaining."

"Yes, I've heard." Randall's tongue lagged unwillingly. "I couldn't help it; but believed, in the least, before—no. I thought he was your friend."

"Was, yes. Now—It's been some time since we came to an understanding; and he told me, warned me. I don't blame him—or her. I've had my chance, ample chance, God knows.... It's simply true."

Randall looked up unbelievingly.

"And you don't hate him, you who were his friend?"

"Hate?... I don't know, don't know anything these days except that I'm down—down; down in the mire, deep!" It was the end, the last crumb of confidence, and Armstrong leaped to his feet. "But what's the use of dissecting any more, what possible use?" His hat was in his hand and he was heading for the door. "It's all simply maddening, and I'm a fool, a visionary fool, who can't change myself or alter events; powerless—" He halted, turned half about. Instinctive courtesy sprang to his lips. "Pardon me, Harry, for bothering you with all this when you can do nothing. I had no idea when I came of staying so long or—or of making a spectacle of myself." He smiled, almost his old smile. "Forgive me this time and I promise never to do it again, never." He turned once more to the door. "Don't get up, old man. I can find my way out. Good-night."

"Steve! Wait!" Randall too was on his feet, a sudden premonition of things to come in his mind, a feeling, more than of pity, for the intention he read clear in the other's face. "Don't go yet—don't go at all. Stay with me to-night, please."

"Stay!" Armstrong too understood, and, understanding, smiled; a smile the other man never forgot. "Stay—to-night?... No, thank you. I appreciate your motive," hurriedly, "don't fancy it's not that; but—" no questioning that preventing gesture, no combating it—"but to-night I'm going to forget.... Yes, and to-morrow night, and the next—and the next!"



CHAPTER VIII

CATASTROPHE

Three evenings in succession a tall young man with an ulster turned up high above his chin and a derby hat lowered well over his eyes circled the block of which the Gleason lot and cottage was a part. The first time, in front of the house itself, he had merely halted, hands deep in his pockets, obviously uncertain; then, as though under strain of an immediate engagement beyond, had hastened on. The second time he had passed up the walk, half way to the door; had of a sudden changed his mind, and disappeared rapidly as before. The third evening, the present, however, there had been no uncertainty, no hesitation. Instead, he had walked straight to the knocker, and, a gray-haired man in lounging-jacket and carpet slippers answering his ring, had come to anchor in the familiar den. From his moorings in the single comfortable chair the place afforded, which had been compellingly pressed upon him, he was listening to the other's explanation.

"I think she'll return soon, though, very soon." Mr. Gleason adjusted his horn-rimmed eyeglasses and peered near-sightedly at his big open-faced silver watch. "She said she'd be back early and it's nearly nine now."

"Something going on, something important, I mean?"

"No; I don't think so. Just out for a little air, and dropped in on one of the girls maybe. She's got three freshmen she's coaching now, and with that out-of-town class and the house here—" The long bony fingers tapped absently tip to tip. "It's the only time that she has and I encourage, insist almost, that she go."

"Yes."

The tapping fingers went still.

"I think sometimes I'm a bit guilty that she at her age—that it should seem to be necessary, I mean—Maybe I imagine it, but it seems to me as though Elice was sort of fagged and different this winter."

The visitor unbuttoned his coat leisurely.

"I hadn't noticed it," he refuted.

"No? I'm glad to hear you say it. You'd have noticed, I guess, if any one. Probably it's all my imagination."

"Elice herself hasn't said anything, intimated anything?"

"Not a word or a hint. Certainly not." Something akin to surprise spoke in the quick reply. "She even wanted to take on another out-of-town class, but I vetoed that. She's as her mother was, Elice: always planning on doing just a little more."

"Than she ought, you think?"

"Yes."

Without apparent excuse, unconsciously, the visitor rebuttoned his double-breasted coat.

"Some people," he commented, "work—more than they ought to, to forget; and others again do—various things."

"What? I beg your pardon."

"To forget, to attain callousness, to cease to feel. There are many formulas tried, many."

"I fear I fail to understand."

"Doubtless. I don't understand myself. I was simply rambling. Pardon me."

Over the horn nose-glasses Mr. Gleason scrutinized the face of the younger man intently.

"Certainly. For what, though, I admit I'm mystified." He glanced away perfunctorily. "Everything is running normally, I suppose, in your department?"

"Yes, about as usual, I guess, practically so."

"Better than usual according to Dean Sanford," cheerfully. "He's inclined to brag a little this year, justifiedly, too, one must admit from the attendance."

"Yes, the attendance is excellent—among the students. Among the faculty—did the dean seem inclined to brag any on the faculty?"

"No; he only talked a few moments." Mr. Gleason produced the big timepiece again hastily. "Nine o'clock. I wonder what can be keeping Elice," he fidgeted.

The visitor smiled, an odd smile, neither of bitterness nor yet of amusement.

"Not inclined particularly to brag on his faculty, the dean, I gather?" returned Armstrong.

The older man straightened. Out of kindness he would retreat so far; but if pursued—

"No, he barely mentioned the faculty, as I remember."

"Not even the professor of chemistry?"

The horn-rimmed glasses had left their owner's nose and, as they had a way of doing when the old man was abstracted, swung like a pendulum from his fingers.

"Not even the professor of chemistry?" repeated Armstrong.

Very quietly the older man held his ground, very steadily.

"Just what is it you wish to know, Steve?" he asked directly. "You gathered, of course, it was a board meeting I referred to—and confidential naturally. I think I need say no more."

"No, no more, certainly. I was merely curious to know if you knew. You've satisfied my curiosity, I believe."

"Satisfied! I'm afraid you're taking a bit for granted. I repeat, if you'll tell me explicitly what you wish—"

"I was mistaken, then, after all," with a peculiar direct look. "You don't really know, Sanford didn't announce—I'm surprised. I never fancied he'd miss the opportunity. It's superhuman repression!"

For fully half a minute Mr. Gleason said nothing; then at the interrupting sound of footsteps in the storm vestibule, followed an instant later by the click of a latch-key, he leaned suddenly toward the younger man.

"That's Elice now," he said. The voice was almost childishly hurried and curious. "What was it that you wondered I didn't know, that Sanford didn't announce?"

From under shaded lids Armstrong observed the change and smiled. The smile vanished as a shadow passed through the entrance.

"I merely marvelled that the dean didn't announce that there would be no professor of chemistry after another week, the close of the present semester," he said evenly. "That is, until a new one is appointed."

"Steve!" The old man's face went gray,—gray as the face of a believer whose gods have been offered sacrilege. In the silence the shadow advanced to the doorway of the room itself; very real, paused there waiting, all-seeing, listening. "You mean you're leaving the department then, quitting for good?"

"For good, no, hardly." Again a laugh, but tense now, forced. "Nor quitting. In plain English I mean I'm kicked out, fired. By request, very insistent request, I've resigned." With an effort he met the girl's eyes fairly. "I've babbled my last lecture in college halls, piped my swan song. The curtain is down, the orchestra has packed its instruments. Only the echo now remains."

* * * * *

"Tell me about it, Steve." The old man had gone, dodderingly, on a pitifully transparent pretext. The girl had tossed coat and gloves on one chair and herself had taken another, removing her hat as she spoke.

"Begin at the beginning and tell me what's the matter—what this all means."

"There is no beginning that I know of," with a shrug that fell far short of the indifferent. "What it means I've already told you."

The hat followed the coat, hanging where it caught on the latter by one pin. "Let's not dissimulate for the present," pleaded the girl, "or juggle words. There's a time for everything."

"And the present?"

"Don't, please! As a favor, if you wish. Begin at the beginning."

"I repeat, there is none to my knowledge. There's only an end."

"The end, then," swiftly; "the reason for it. Don't you wish to tell me?"

"No, I don't wish to. I intend to tell you, however. It was all regular, my retirement; no one at fault among the powers that are. I had been warned—and failed to profit. It was very regular."

"Yes, yes; but the reason! Tell me that."

"Certainly. I was just coming to it. I failed to materialize at the department two days in succession. I overslept."

"Steve Armstrong! Steve—what do you fancy I'm made of! Do you mean to tell me or merely to—dissect?"

"No, not dissect, to tell you. That's why I came; to tell you several things, this among the rest. Elice, don't do that, don't cry. Please!—I don't intend to be a brute, I didn't mean anything. I'm simply ashamed to tell you straight from the shoulder. I'm down in the gutter. You'll hear, though, anyway. I might better—I was drunk, irresponsible, two days in succession. That's all."

"You—that way; you, Steve Armstrong!" No tears now, no hysterics; just steady, unbelieving expectancy. "I can't believe it—won't. You're playing with me."

"No, it's true. I won't say 'God knows it's true.' I'm not dog enough yet to—blaspheme. It's simply true."

"Steve!" The girl was on her feet, half way to him. "I never dreamed, never—You poor boy!"

"Elice, don't—don't touch me. I ask it—don't!"

"What—you can't mean—that!"

"Yes. Sit down, please." The voice was thick. "I have several things to tell you. This was only one."

For long, interminably long it seemed to the watcher, the girl stood where she had paused, midway; the figure of her still, too still, her face shading first red to the ear tips, then slowly colorless as understanding drove home. A half-minute probably, in reality, immeasurably longer to them both it seemed, she stood so. Without a word she went back to her seat, remained there, unnaturally still, her arms, bare to the elbow in half sleeves, forming a great white V as the clasped hands lay motionless in her lap.

For another half-minute no word was spoken, no sound from without drifted into the room. Suddenly the girl turned, her great dark eyes met those of the man, held them steadily.

"You said there was something else you wished to tell me. I can't imagine anything more, anything you didn't tell just now. However, I'm listening."

The man said nothing, nor moved—just looked at her.

"I repeat, I'm listening."

"Yes, I notice." Armstrong pulled himself together absently. "I was thinking of something else; I'd forgotten momentarily. I always was an absent-minded specimen; and lately—I've been worse than usual lately."

The girl merely waited this time, the great brown eyes wide and dry.

"When it comes to telling you, though," stumbled on the man, "what I came to tell you to-night, what I don't wish to tell you but must—Elice, don't look at me, please; don't! My nerve's gone. Don't you wish to ask me questions instead?"

"Perhaps," obediently the girl turned away, "after you've made things clear a bit. Don't fancy I'm trying to make it hard for you. I'm not, only, only—Remember, I'm all in the dark yet, all confused."

"Yes, I know—and I'm to blame. I've been trying for a week to bring myself to tell you, one thing at a time; but I couldn't, and now—everything's tumbled on my head together now."

"Everything? Steve, begin somewhere, anywhere. Don't suggest things; tell me. It's been ten days since you called last. Why was that?"

"I was afraid. I tried to come, but I couldn't."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of you, of myself, of life. I've known that long to a certainty that the play was over between you and me, but I couldn't bring myself to say the word. It's just this I was afraid of. This!"

"You mean to tell me now that all is over?" Unconsciously this time the girl had shifted facing; quietly—again, too quietly—was putting the query direct: "That's what you're telling me now?"

"Yes."

"And why—Am I the cause—have I by word or act—have I?"

"No."

"Is it because you've lost your chair in the University?"

"No."

"Why, then?"

"Because we've ceased to be necessary to each other, have grown apart."

"You think we've changed?... I've not changed."

"No. It's I who have changed, have grown away from you."

"Since when? Let's have it all. Let's understand everything. Since when?"

"I don't know when, can't set a date. I merely know."

"That—that you don't care for me any more?"



A halt, a long, long halt.

"Yes, Elice," said a voice at last. "I've found out that I don't care for you any more."

As before, the girl said nothing, never stirred.

"I shan't try to defend myself, try to explain," stumbled on the man. "I couldn't if I would. The thing has simply come about—I wish to ask you to release me."

"Steve!" Of a sudden the girl was on her feet, the forced composure of a moment ago in tatters, the tiny hands locked tight. "I can't believe it, can't credit it. I love you, Steve, in spite of all you've told me; more, because you need me more now." The locked fingers opened. She came a step forward in mute appeal. "Tell me that you don't mean it, that you're merely acting, that, that—" As suddenly she halted. Her face hidden in her hands, she dropped back into the seat. "Forget, please," she halted, "that I did that. I didn't mean to. I—I—forget it."

"Elice—dear!" Aroused beyond his purpose, his determination, the man sprang from his seat, his eyes ablaze, glorious. "Elice—"

"No, not pity! Never, a thousand times no! Leave me alone a minute. I release you, yes, yes; but don't come near me now. I'm hysterical and irresponsible. Don't, please!"

Precisely where he stood Armstrong paused, looking down. After that first involuntary sound he had not spoken or come closer. He merely remained there, waiting, looking; and as he did so, though the room was far from close, drops of sweat gathered on his forehead and beneath his eyes. With a restless hand he brushed them away and sat down. Another minute passed, two perhaps; then suddenly, interrupting, incongruous, there sounded the strained rasp of his laugh.

"Elice," followed a voice, "aren't you through—nearly?" Again the laugh; grating, unmirthful. "I've done this sort of thing identically in novels several times, done it realistically, I thought; but it never took this long by minutes. Aren't you almost through?"

Surprised out of herself the girl looked up, incredulous.

"Something must be wrong, art or reality, one or the other. I—I wonder—which was wrong, Elice?"

As suddenly as the mood of abandon had come it passed; incredulity, its successor, as well. In the space of seconds the miracle was wrought, and another woman absolutely sat there looking forth from the brown eyes of Elice Gleason.

"Steve! I thought I was ready for anything after what you just told me, what you just asked. But this deliberate—insult.... Did you mean it, Steve, really; or are you merely acting?... Don't look away; this means the world to you and me, and I want to be sure, now.... Did you mean it, Steve, the way you did it, deliberately? Tell me."

"Mean it? Certainly. It's important, what I asked, from an artist's point of view. Either I was wrong or else reality is—overdone.... Repression's the word, all critics agree, repression invariably."

"Steve Armstrong! Stop! I won't stand it. Listen. It's unbelievable, but I must take you at your word—your own word. Do you mean exactly what you've said, and done?"

Again the moisture sprang to Armstrong's face, but this time there was no attempt at procrastination.

"Yes, Elice," he said, and looked her fair.

"Yes? Think. This is final."

"Yes."

An instant the look held; the brown eyes dropped.

"I repeat, then, you are released, free." She sat very still. "Is there anything else you wish to say?"

"Perhaps. I don't know.... You mean, if I have I'm to say it now. I can't come again.... You're not going to forgive me?"

"Forgive? Certainly, if there is anything to forgive. I had no thought otherwise."

"I'm not to come again, though. You mean that?"

"I fail to see the object.... To use an expression of your own, it's desecration to disturb the corpse."

"Even if—"

"Let's not argue about nothing. I'm not cursed with nerves ordinarily, but there are times—" She arose slowly, stood there beside her chair, gracefully slender, gracefully imperious. "You've chosen deliberately, you know."

"Yes, I know." Armstrong too had arisen in his dismissal, involuntarily obedient. "But you said, before I told you, before you understood, that afterward, perhaps—You remember you said that?"

"Yes; I remember. Things are changed now, though. What I had in mind you've answered yourself.... One thing I would like to ask, however, one thing that I hope you will answer truly, no matter whether it hurts me or not. It's this: Was I to blame in any way whatever, by word or act or suggestion, for your losing your place in the University? Will you answer me that—and truly?"

From the chair where he had thrown it down Armstrong took up the long ulster and buttoned it mechanically to his throat.

"No, Elice," he repeated; "you're not at fault in any way, by word or act or suggestion. There's no one at fault except myself."

"Thank you. I would always have feared, if I hadn't asked, that somehow unintentionally—" She was silent.

Armstrong hesitated, waiting until there was no longer hope.

"You have nothing else you wish to say, then?" he asked at last.

"Nothing; unless it is this, that you know already: I shall always believe in you, Steve, always."

"Believe in me!" The shade of the old ironic smile did duty. "You think I shall still become wealthy and famous?"

"Perhaps not," swiftly. "I never demanded either qualification of you. Why should I lie now? Both are right and desirable in their place, provided they come normally; but their place is second, not first. You know what I mean. I believe that you will always be clean and fair and likeable—always."

Involuntarily the man turned away, until his face was hidden.

"You believe this, and still—you don't give advice or—or warning?"

"I repeat, I believe in you. Even if it weren't an insult advice would not be necessary."

A last second they stood there, so near, so very near together and still so infinitely far apart. Dully, almost ploddingly, the man turned to leave.

"Thank you, Elice," he said. "That's probably the last kind word I'll hear for a long time. Perhaps, too, it's justified, perhaps—who knows? Good-night and—good-bye."

The girl did not follow him, did not move.

"Good-bye, Steve," she echoed.



BOOK II

CHAPTER I

ANTICIPATION

"Are you given to remembering dates, Elice?"

There had been a pause,—one of the inevitable, normal pauses that occur when two people who are intimate are alone and conversation drifts where it will. Into this particular void, without preamble, entered this question.

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Not always, then?"

"No. I haven't any particular tendency that way that I know of. Possibly I'm not yet old enough for it to develop."

"To be more specific, then, to-day is December the sixth." Darley Roberts' eyelids narrowed whimsically. "Does that particular date have any special significance, recall anything out of the ordinary to you?"

Elice Gleason glanced up from the four-leafed clover she was bringing to life on the scrap of linen in her lap, and looked at her companion thoughtfully.

"From the way you come at me, point blank," she smiled, "I have no doubt it should. Your chance questions, I've discovered, always do have a string attached to them somewhere. But just at this particular moment I admit December the sixth recalls nothing in particular."

"Not even when I add, at approximately eight o'clock in the evening? It's that now. I've been consulting the timepiece over there."

"No; not even that. I'm more and more convinced it's a distinct lapse on my part; but again I'm compelled to confess incompetency. When did what happen at approximately eight P.M. on December the sixth?"

Darley Roberts stroked his great chin with reminiscent deliberation.

"On December sixth, at eight o'clock P.M., precisely one year ago," he explained minutely, "a certain man called on a certain young woman of his acquaintance for the first time. It was, I am reliably informed, a momentous occasion for him. Moreover he—Had you really forgotten, Elice?"

"Yes—the date."

"Strange. I hadn't. Perhaps, though, it meant more to me than to you." He laughed peculiarly. "I fancy I didn't tell you at the time that it was the first call I'd ever made on a young woman in my life." He laughed again with tolerant amusement. "I was thirty-three years old then, too."

The girl drew a thread of green from a bundle of silk in her lap deliberately. "No; you never told me that," she corroborated.

The wrinkles gathering about Darley Roberts' eyes suddenly deepened, infallible precursor of the unexpected.

"By the way," he digressed, "I'm growing curious to know what you do with those things you're embroidering, those—"

"Lunch cloths?"

"That's it, lunch cloths. The present makes seven, one after the other, you've completed. I've kept count."

"Curious, you say?" The girl laughed softly. "And still you've never asked."

"No. I fancied there'd ultimately be an end, a variation at least; but it seems I was mistaken. Do you expect to keep them, as a man does a case of razors, one for each day of the week?"

Again the soft little amused laugh.

"Hardly. I sell them. There are five more in prospect—an even dozen."

"Oh. I wondered."

Another void; an equally abrupt return.

"To come back to the date," recalled the man, "I remembered it distinctly this morning when I tore the top leaf off the desk-pad. It stood out as though it were printed in red ink, like the date of a holiday. I—do I show signs of becoming senile—childish, Elice?"

"Not that I've noticed. You seem normal."

"Nor irresponsible—moonstruck—nothing of that kind?"

"No."

"I'm glad to hear it. I didn't know.... Somehow this morning the sight of that date made me do a thing I haven't done since—I don't know when. I had a consuming desire to celebrate."

The girl's head was bent low, the better to see her work.

"Yes?" she said.

Again the man stroked his chin, with the former movement of whimsical deliberation.

"Do you know what people down town, people I do business with, call me, Elice?" he asked.

"No."

"Never heard of 'old man' Roberts?"

"No," again.

"Well, that's me—old man Roberts—old man—thirty-four.... By the way, what do you call me, Elice?"

"Mr. Roberts," steadily.

"Not Darley; not once in all this last year?"

No answer.

"Not Darley—even once?"

"I think not."

The eyes of the man smiled, the eyes only.

"To return again, old man Roberts had a desire to celebrate. The date was on his brain. He didn't even take off his coat after he'd seen it—normally the old man works in his shirt-sleeves, you know—he just walked back from his private room into the general office. 'To-day's a holiday,' he said.

"They stared, the office force—there are seven of them. They didn't say a word; they just stared.

"'I say to-day's a holiday,' the old man repeated, 'shut up shop.'"

There was a silence. In it Miss Gleason glanced up—into two eyes smiling out of a blank face. Her own dropped. Simultaneously, also, her ears tinged scarlet.

Darley Roberts laughed a low tolerant laugh at his own expense.

"Still think I wasn't irresponsible—moonstruck—nothing of the kind?"

"No—Mr. Roberts."

"Wait. After the force had gone, still staring, the old man went back to his desk. He looked up a number in the telephone directory. 'Mr. Herbert? Roberts, Darley Roberts.—I'd like to see you personally. Yes, at once. I'm waiting.'"

Again the girl glanced up; something made her. And again she encountered those same eyes smiling out of a masked face.

"The old man waited; ten minutes maybe. He didn't do a thing; just waited. Then events came to pass." Once more the little throaty laugh. "'Mr. Herbert,' he said, 'your house you advertise for sale. How much this morning?'

"Mr. Herbert seemed surprised, distinctly surprised. He was only half through the door at the time.

"'Eighteen thousand dollars. It cost twenty,'—after he's caught his breath.

"'It cost you fifteen even. I've been to some trouble to find out.'

"'You can't know the place, Mr.—Mr. Roberts.'

"'Yes. Top of the hill. Faces east and north. Terra cotta, brick. For reasons you know best it's been vacant for a month now.'

"'You can't know the inside, I mean. It's finished in solid hardwood, every inch.'

"'Yes, I've seen it; oak in front, mahogany in the dining-room, rosewood in the den. I've seen it.'

"'When? I've lived there nine years until just lately. Not in that time.'

"'Yes, during that time. I was at a party there once,—a university party which Mrs. Herbert gave.'

"'All right. Maybe you know.'

"'Unquestionably. I repeat the place cost you fifteen thousand.'

"'The price now is eighteen.'

"'You don't wish to sell—at fifteen?'

"'No.'

"'That's all, then.'

"'Roberts—confound it—'

"'I'm sorry to have bothered you. I thought you wished to sell.'

"'I've got to, but I don't have to give it away.'

"'I repeat I'm sorry to have bothered you.'

"'I'll see you again; to-morrow perhaps—'

"'I shall be very busy to-morrow. To-day's a holiday.'

"'A holiday! Anyway I haven't the abstract.'

"'Unnecessary. I said I knew all about the place. I see the deed there in your pocket. You anticipated, I see.'

"'Well, of all the inexplicable hurry!'

"'Shall I write you a check for—fifteen thousand?'"

Darley Roberts halted. For the third time he laughed.

"You gather, perhaps," he said, "that I bought a house this morning. Afterward I bought a few other things—just a few. After that I moved in; into two rooms. I've had rather a busy day, all told, celebrating—celebrating December the sixth.... How about it, Elice, now that I've elaborated. Any signs of senility, irresponsibility, yet?"

"No," very steadily. "It seems perfectly natural to me for a man to want a house."

"Perhaps you're right. Yes; I do want a house, no doubt about it; particularly that house. I've been intending to own it sometime for quite a spell—for some eight years now; to be exact, since the time I saw it before.... You know the place, don't you?"

"Yes, very well."

"I fancied so.... By the way, do you recall that—occasion I referred to?"

"Indistinctly."

"I fancied that too.... You don't remember by any chance what a lion I was that night?"

"No, Mr. Roberts."

"Not 'no, Darley'?"

"No."

"Not even yet; and it's been a year!... As I was about to say, though, I recall distinctly. I remember I had a perfectly delightful time—listening to the others' conversation. Likewise dancing—with myself in a shadowy corner. Also eating lunch—with myself later. I had ample time to think—and I decided eventually that there'd been a slight mistake somehow when my name got on the list.... I liked the house, though, very much; so much that I decided to buy it sometime—at a nominal figure. I didn't feel peculiarly generous that night when I made the decision.... Last of all, I recall I met a girl; rather young then, but rather pleasant also, I thought. She talked to me for an entire minute. I know because I held my breath the while, and that's my limit. She was the only one who apparently did see me that night, though. Perhaps her being rather young was why."

The voice ceased. The speaker looked at the listener. Simultaneously the listener looked at the speaker. They smiled, companionably, understandingly.

"That's all, I believe, I have to impart concerning December the sixth, all concerning the celebration. That is—" of a sudden the bantering voice was serious and low—"that is, unless there's something more you'd like to know."

The girl was busy with the clover again, very busy.

"I think you've told me all there is to tell," she said steadily. "I understand."

Darley Roberts waited; but that was all.

"Very well." The voice was normal again, tolerant, non-committal. "It's your turn, then. I fear I'm becoming positively loquacious. I monopolize the conversation. Let's hear your report since—Thanksgiving, I believe,—the last time I heard it."

For some reason the girl lost interest in her work. At least there seemed less need of immediate haste. She rolled the silks and the linen together with a little unconscious sigh of relief.

"Since Thanksgiving," she said, "I've cooked eighteen meals for father and myself. I've been out of town once, coached two thick heads twice each, attended one bridge party—or was it five hundred? I believe that's all."

"Not had a call from Miss Simpson?" smilingly.

"How did you know?"

"I don't know. I asked you."

"Yes; Agnes called—of course."

"What report of your friends the Randalls, then?"

"Shame on you—really."

"No. I didn't mean it that way—really. You know it. I'm interested because you are. How are things coming on with them?"

The girl fingered the roll in her lap absently. "Badly, I'm afraid. Margery's gone to Chicago to visit her cousin, and shop. She can't seem to realize—or won't. I went over and baked some things for Harry yesterday. He's dismissed the maid they had and the place looks as cheerful as a barn. I didn't even see him."

"You noticed the house, though, doubtless. Much new furniture about?"

"Yes, for the dining-room; a complete new suite, sideboard and all, in weathered oak. It's dear.... How in the world did you know, though?"

"A big rug, too, and curtains, and—a lot of things?"

"How did you know, you? Tell me that."

"Would you say it was worth four hundred dollars in all, what you saw?" The eyes were smiling again.

"Perhaps. I don't know. I have never bought such things.... You haven't answered my question yet."

"I know because Mr. Randall told me. He also requested me, as a favor, to ask you about them instead of going to the house myself."

"Which means you made him a loan to pay the bill. Are you a friend of Harry's?"

"A loan, yes. A friend—only as your friends are mine."

"It's too bad, a burning shame—when Harry works so hard, too." The girl winked fast, against her will. "I can't quite forgive Margery."

"For going to Chicago?"

"For everything. For that too."

"Not if I told you I advised her to go?"

"You!" In astonishment complete the girl stared. "You advised her to go?"

"Yes, the same day I made Randall the loan. It was really a coincidence. I wondered they didn't meet in the elevator."

"A lawyer in a little town like this, with several departments in his business, comes in contact with a variety of things," he commented after a moment.

"Tell me about Margery." The girl seemed to have heard that suggestion only. "I can't understand, can't believe—really."

For a moment Roberts was silent. There was no banter in his manner when he looked up at last.

"I didn't tell you this merely to gossip," he said slowly; "I think you appreciate that without my saying it; but somehow I felt that you ought to know—that if any one could do any good there it is you. I never met either of them before, that's another coincidence; but from what you've told me and the little I saw of them both that day, I felt dead sorry. Besides, life's so short, and I hate—divorce."

"You can't mean it has come to that?"

"It hadn't come, but it was coming fast. She visited me first. From there she was going straight to her father—to stay."

"It's horrible, simply horrible—and so unjustified! You induced her, though, to go to Chicago instead?"

"It was a compromise, a play for time. I tried to get her to go back home, but she refused, positively. The only alternative seemed to be to get her away—quick.... Was I right?"

"Yes, I think so, under the circumstances. But the trouble itself, I can't understand yet—Was it that abominable furniture?"

"Partly. At least that was the final straw, the match to the fuse. The whole thing had been gathering slowly for a long time. I didn't get the entire story, of course. She wasn't exactly coherent. It seems she ordered it on her own responsibility, and when the goods were delivered—the thing was merely inevitable, some time—that was all."

"Inevitable? No. It was abominable of Margery—unforgivable."

"I don't know about that; in fact I'm inclined to differ. I still maintain it was inevitable."

"Inevitable fiddlesticks! Harry is the best-natured man alive, and generous. He's been too generous, too easy; that's the trouble."

"'Generous?'" gently. "'Generous?'... Is it generous for a man with nothing and no prospect of anything to take a girl out of a home where money was never a consideration, and transplant her into another where practically it is the only thought?... 'Generous' for his own pleasure, to undertake to teach her a financial lesson he knew to a moral certainty in advance she could never learn? Do you honestly call that 'generous'?"

"But she could learn. It—was her duty."

"Duty!" Roberts laughed tolerantly. "Is 'duty' in the dictionary you use a synonym for 'cooking' and 'scrubbing' and 'drudgery'? Is that your interpretation?"

"Sometimes—in this case, yes; for a time."

"Permanently, you mean?"

"No; for a time—until Harry got on his feet."

"He'll never get on his feet unaided. Instead he'll get more and more wobbly all the time. The past proves the future. He's proved it."

"You're simply horrid." There were real tears in the girl's eyes now, not a mere premonition. "I'm sorry I ever told you anything about them."

"I know I'm horrid, grant it. A friend I once had told me I was a fish,—cold-blooded like one. Nature made me that way, you see, so I can't help it. And still I'm inclined to believe if Mrs. Randall had chanced to select any other lawyer in town there'd be a real separation, instead of one in prospect, right now."

Elice Gleason looked up penitently.

"I'm sorry," she said simply. "I didn't mean that."

"I don't doubt it," equally simply.

"You're so blunt and logical though; so—abstract."

"Yes; I am that way."

The girl drew a long breath. Seemingly, after all, the victory was hers.

"Well, what are we going to do about it? We, their friends, have to do something."

"Yes, that's the question—what?"

"Margery will never go back now of herself. I know her."

"No; she'll never go back of herself, never. Do you blame her?"

No answer. The query was sudden.

"Honest, do you blame her?" insistently.

"I thought I did. I don't know—I don't know."

"Does 'love, honor, and obey' mean 'wash, bake, and scrub' to a girl who has never in her life before done any of the three?"

Still silence.

"Would you, if you were in her place, come back—would you?"

"I?" It was almost a gasp. "I'm not like Margery. I've counted pennies all my life." A sudden flame. "But why do you bring me in?"

"Why? That's true. I had no right. I apologize. To come back to Mrs. Randall. Do you still blame her?"

"No, I don't believe I do. I ought to, I feel that; but I don't. It's tangled, tangled!"

"Yes. It's the first symptom of divorce."

The girl flashed him a sudden look.

"And you hate divorce. You just said so."

"From the bottom of my soul. I meant it."

Miss Gleason flashed a second look. Suddenly, unaccountably, she held the reins.

"What's to be done then? Margery is as she is, we both know that; and—and Harry loves her, we both know that, too. What do you suggest?"