It was on the way home that Jane had said to Baldy: “I feel like a selfish pig.”

“Why, my dear?”

“To take your precious prize before it is cold. It doesn’t seem right.”

“It isn’t a question of right or wrong. If things turn out with these new people as I hope, I’ll be painting like mad for the next two months. And you’ll have your work cut out for you as my model. They like you, Jane. They said so.”

He had driven on steadily for a time, and had then said, “I never wanted you to marry him.”

“Why not, Baldy?”

He turned his lighted-up eyes upon her. “Janey—I wanted you to have your—dreams——”

She had laid her hand on his arm in a swift caress. “You’re a darling——” and after a while, “Nothing can take us from each other, ever, Baldy.”

Never had they drawn closer in spirit than at this moment. But they said very little about it. When they came to the house, Baldy went at once to the garage. “I’ll answer that letter, and put in a good afternoon looking over my sketches.” He did not tell her how gray the day stretched ahead of him—that golden day which had started with high hopes.

Jane changed to a loose straight frock of orange cotton, and without a hat, feeling actual physical freedom in the breaking of her bonds, she swung along the path to the little grove. It was aromatic with the warm scent of the pines, and there was a cool shade in the heart of it. Jane had brought a bag of stockings to mend, and sat down to her homely task, smiling a little as she thought of the contrast between this afternoon and yesterday, when she had sat on the rim of the fountain and watched Adelaide and the peacock. She had no feeling of rancor against Adelaide. She was aware only of a great thankfulness.

She was, indeed, at the moment, steeped in divine content. Here was the place where she belonged. She had a sense of blissful escape.

Merrymaid came down the path, her tail a plume. The kitten followed. A bronze butterfly floated across their vision, and they leaped for it—but it went above them—joyously towards the open blue of the sky. The two cats gazed after it, then composed themselves carefully like a pair of miniature lions—their paws in front of them, sleepy-eyed but alert for more butterflies, or for Jane’s busy thread.

And it was thus that Towne found her. Convinced that the house was empty, he had started towards Baldy’s studio. Then down the vista of the pine grove, his eye had been caught by a spot of golden color. He had followed it.

She laid down her work and looked up at him. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“My dear child, why not? Jane, you are making mountains of molehills.”

“I’m not.”

He sat down beside her. The little cats drew away, doubtful. “It was natural that you should have resented it. And a thing like that isn’t easy for a man to explain. Without seeming a—cad——”

“There isn’t anything to explain.”

“But there is. I have made you unhappy, and I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, and spoke thoughtfully. “I think I am—happy. Mr. Towne, your world isn’t my world. I like simple things and pleasant things, and honest things. And I like a One-Woman man, Mr. Towne.”

He tried to laugh. “You are jealous.”

“No,” she said, quietly, “it isn’t that, although men like you think it is. A woman who has self-respect must know her husband has her respect. Her heart must rest in him.”

He spoke slowly. “I’ll admit that I’ve philandered a lot. But I’ve never wanted to marry anyone but you. I can promise you my future.”

“I’m sorry. But even if last night had never been—I think I should have—given you up. I had begun to feel that I didn’t love you. That out there in Chicago you swept me off my feet. Mr. Towne, I am sorry. And I am grateful. For all your kindness——” She flushed and went on, “You know, of course, that I shan’t be happy until—I don’t owe you anything....”

He laid his hand on hers. “I wish you wouldn’t speak of it. It was nothing.”

“It was a great deal.”

He looked down at her, slender and young and infinitely desirable. “You needn’t think I am going to let you go,” he said.

“I’m afraid—you must——”

He flamed suddenly. “I’m more of a One-Woman man than you think. If you won’t marry me, I won’t have anyone else. I’ll go on alone. As for Adelaide——A woman like that doesn’t expect much more than I gave. That’s all I can say about her. She means nothing to me, seriously, and never will. She plays the game, and so do I, but it’s only a game.”

He looked tired and old. “I’ll go abroad to-morrow. When I come back, perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

“I shall never change it,” she said, “never.”

He stood up. “Jane, I could make you happy.” He held her hand as she stood beside him.

She looked at him and knew that he could not. Her dreams had come back to her—of Galahad—of Robin Hood ... the world of romance had again flung wide its gates....

After Towne had gone she sat for a long time thinking it over. She blamed herself. She had broken her promise. Yet, he, too, had broken a promise.

She finished mending the stockings, and rolled them into compact balls. The little cats were asleep—the shadows were stretched out and the sun slanted through the pines. She had dinner to get, for her return had been unexpected, and Sophy had not been notified.

She might have brought to the thought of her tasks some faint feeling of regret. But she had none. She was glad to go in—to make an omelette—and cream the potatoes—and have hot biscuits and berries—and honey.

Planning thus, competently, she raised her eyes—to see coming along the path the two boys who had of late been Evans’ close companions. She spoke to them as they reached her. “Can’t you stay a minute? I’ll make you some lemonade.”

They stopped and looked at her in a way that startled her. “We can’t,” Arthur said; “we’re going over to the Follettes. We thought we might help.”

She stared at them. “Help? What do you mean?”

Sandy gasped. “Oh, didn’t you know? Mrs. Follette died this morning....”