Strelsa had gone to town with her maid, remained there the entire afternoon, and returned to Witch-Hollow without seeing Quarren or even letting him know she was there.

It was the beginning of the end for her and she knew it; and she had already begun to move doggedly toward the end through the blind confusion of things, no longer seeing, hearing, heeding; impelled mechanically toward the goal which meant to her only the relief of absolute rest.

For her troubles were accumulating and she found in herself no resisting power—only the nervous strength left to get away from them. Troubles of every description were impending; some had already come upon her, like Quarren's last letter which she knew signified that the termination of their friendship was already in sight.

But other things were in sight, too, so she spent the afternoon in town with her lawyers; which lengthy sÉance resulted in the advertising for immediate sale of her house in town and its contents, her town car, brougham, victoria and three horses.

Through her lawyers, also, every jewel she possessed, all her wardrobe except what she had with her at Witch-Hollow, and her very beautiful collection of old lace, were placed in the hands of certain discreet people to dispose of privately.

Every servant in her employment except her maid was paid and dismissed; her resignation from the Province Club was forwarded, all social engagements for the summer cancelled.

There remained only two other matters to settle; and one of them could be put off—without hope of escape perhaps—but still it could be avoided for a little while longer.

The other was to write to Quarren; and she wrote as follows:

"I have been in town; necessity drove me, and I was too unhappy to see you. But this is the result: I can hold out a few months longer—to no purpose, I know—yet, you asked it of me, and I am trying to do it. Meanwhile the pressure never eases; I feel your unhappiness deeply—deeply, Rix!—and it is steadily wearing me out. And the pressure from Molly in your behalf, from Mrs. Sprowl by daily letter in behalf of Sir Charles, from Langly in his own interest never slackens for one moment.

"And that is not all; my late husband left no will, and I have steadily refused to make any contest for more than my dower rights.

"That has been swept away, now; urgent need has compelled me to offer for sale everything I possess except what wardrobe and unimportant trinkets I have with me.

"So many suits have been threatened and even commenced against me—you don't know, Rix—but while there remains any chance of meeting my obligations dollar for dollar I have refused to go through bankruptcy.

"I need not, now, I think. But the selling of everything will not leave me very much; and in the end my cowardice will do what you dread, and what I no longer fear, so utterly dead in me is every emotion, every nerve, every moral. Men bound to the wheel have slept; I want that sleep. I long for the insensibility, the endless lethargy that the mortally bruised crave; and that is all I hope or care for now.

"Love, as man professes it, would only hurt me—even yours. There can be no response from a soul and body stunned. Nothing must disturb their bruised coma.

"The man I intend to marry can evoke nothing in me, will demand nothing of me. That is already mutually understood. It's merely a bargain. He wants me as the ornament for the House of Sprowl. I can carry out the pact without effort, figure as the mistress of his domain, live life through unharassed as though I stood alone in a vague, warm dream, safe from anything real.

"Meanwhile, without aim, without hope, without even desire to escape my destiny, I am holding out because you ask it. To what end, my friend? Can you tell me?"

One morning Molly came into her room greatly perturbed, and Strelsa, still in bed, laid aside the New Testament which she had been reading, and looked up questioningly at her agitated hostess.

"It's your fault," began Molly without preliminaries—"that old woman certainly suspects what you're up to with her nephew or she wouldn't bother to come up here——"

"Who?" said Strelsa, sitting up. "Mrs. Sprowl?"

"Certainly, horse, foot, and dragoons! She's coming, I tell you, and there's only one motive for her advent!"

"But where will she stop?" asked Strelsa, flushing with dismay.

"Where do you suppose?"

"With Langly?"

"He wouldn't have her."

"She is not to be your guest, is she?"

"No. She wrote hinting that she'd come if asked. I pretended not to understand. I don't want her here. Every servant I have would leave—as a beginning. Besides I don't require the social prestige of such a visitation; and she knows that, too. So what do you think she's done?"

"I can't imagine," said Strelsa wearily.

"Well, she's manoeuvred, somehow; and this morning's paper announces that she's to be entertained at South Linden by Mary Ledwith."

Strelsa reddened.

"Why should that concern me?" she asked calmly.

"Concern you, child! How can it help concerning you? Do you see what she's done?—do you count all the birds she's knocked over with one stone. Mary Ledwith returns from Reno and Mrs. Sprowl fixes and secures her social status by visiting her at once. And it's a perfectly plain notice to Langly, too, and—forgive me, dear!—to you!"

Strelsa scarlet and astonished, sat up rigid, her beautiful head thrown back.

"If she means it that way, it is slanderous," she said. "The entire story is a base slander! Did you believe it, Molly?"

"Believe it? Of course I believe it——"

"Why should you? Because a lot of vile newspapers have hinted at such a thing? I tell you it is an infamous story without one atom of truth in it——"

"How do you know?" asked Molly bluntly.

"Because Langly says so."

"Oh. Did you ask him?"

"No. He spoke of it himself."

"He denied it?"

"Absolutely on his word of honour."

"Then why didn't he sue a few newspapers?"

"He spoke of that, too. He said that his attorneys had advised him not to bring any actions because the papers had been too clever to lay themselves open to suits for libel."

"Oh," said Molly softly.

Strelsa, flushed, breathing rapidly and irregularly, sat there in bed watching her; but Molly avoided her brilliant, level gaze.

"There's no use in talking to you," she said, "but why on earth you don't marry Sir Charles——"

"Molly! Please don't——"

"—Or Rix——"

"Molly! Molly! Can't you let me alone! Can't we be together for ten minutes unless you urge me to marry somebody? Why do you want me to marry anybody!—Why——"

"But you're going to marry Langly, you say!"

"Yes, I am! I am! But can't you let me forget it for a moment or two? I—I'm not very well——"

"I can't help it," said Molly, grimly. "I'm sorry, darling, but the moment your engagement to Langly is announced there'll be a horrid smash and some people are going to be spattered——"

"It isn't announced!" said the girl hotly. "Only you and Rix know about it except Langly and myself!"

Molly Wycherly rose from her chair, went over and seated herself on the foot of the bed:

"Tell me something, will you, Strelsa?"

"What?"

"Why does Langly desire to keep your engagement to him a secret?"

"He wishes it for the present."

"Why?"

"For that very reason!" said Strelsa, fiercely—"because of the injustice the papers have done him in this miserable Ledwith matter. He chooses to wait until it is forgotten—in order to shield me, I suppose, from any libellous comment——"

"You talk like a little idiot!" said Molly between her teeth. "Strelsa, I could shake you—if it would wake you up! Do you suppose for a moment that this Ledwith matter will be forgotten? Do you suppose if there were nothing in it but libel that he'd be afraid? You listen to me; that man is not apt to be afraid of anything, but he evidently is afraid, now! Of what, then?"

"Of my being annoyed by newspaper comment."

"And you think it's merely that?"

"Isn't it enough?"

Molly laughed:

"We're a hardened lot—some of us. But our most deadly fear is that the papers may not notice us. No matter what they say if they'll only say something!—that's our necessity and our unadmitted prayer. Because we've neither brains nor culture nor any distinguishing virtue or ability—and we're nothing—absolutely nothing unless the papers create us! Don't tell me that any one among us is afraid of publicity!—not in the particular circle where you and I and Langly and his aunt pursue our eccentric orbits!

"Plenty of wealthy and fashionable people dread publicity and shrink from it; plenty of them would gladly remain unchronicled and unsung. But it is not so among the fixed stars and planets and meteors and satellites of our particularly flamboyant constellation. I know. I also know that you don't really belong in it. But you'll either become accustomed to it or it will kill you if you don't drop—or soar, as you please—into some other section of eternal space."

She sat swinging her foot, flushed, animated, her eyes and colour brilliant—a slim, exquisitely groomed woman with all the superficial smoothness of a girl save for the wisdom in her eyes and in her smile, alas!

And the other's eyes reflected in their clear gray depths no such wisdom, only the haunting knowledge of sorrow and, vaguely, the inexplicable horror of man as he really is—or at least as she had only known him.

Still swinging her pretty foot, a deliberate smile edging her lips, Molly said:

"If you'll let me, I'll stand by you, darling."

Strelsa stared at her without comprehension, then dropped her head back on the pillows.

"If you'll let me stay with you a little while longer—that is all I ask," she said almost drowsily.

Molly sprang up, came around and kissed her, lightly: "Of course. That was what I was going to ask of you."

Strelsa closed her eyes. "I'll stay," she murmured.

Molly laid her own cool face down beside Strelsa's hot cheek, kneeling beside the bed.

"Dear," she whispered, "let us wait and see what happens. There's just one thing that has distorted your view—a dreadful experience with one man—two years of hell's own horror with one of its wretched inhabitants. I don't believe the impression is going to last a lifetime. I don't believe it is indelible. I believe somehow, some time you will learn that a man's love does not mean horror and degradation; that it is no abuse of friendship which offers love also, to return it with friendship only.

"Sir Charles offers that; and you refuse because you do not love him and will not use his friendship to aid yourself to material comfort.

"And I suspect you have said the same thing to Rix. Have you?"

The girl lay silent, eyes closed.

"Never mind; don't answer. I know you well enough to know that you said some such thing to Rix.... And it's all right in its way. But the alternative is not what you think it is—not this bargain with Langly for a place to lay your tired head—not this deal to decorate his name and estates in return for personal immunity. You are wrong—I'm not immoral, only unmoral—as many of us are—but you've gone all to pieces, dear—morally, mentally, nervously—and it's not from cowardice, not from depravity. It is the direct result of the two years of terror and desperate self-control—two years of courage—high moral courage, determination, self-suppression—and of the startling and dreadful climax.

"That is the blow you are now feeling—and the reaction even after two years more of half-stunned solitude. You are waking, darling; that is all. And it hurts."

Strelsa's bare arm moved a little, moved, groping, and tightened around Molly's neck. And they remained that way for a long while, Molly kneeling on the floor beside her.

"Don't you ever cry?" she whispered.

"Not—now."

"It would be better if you could."

"There are no tears—I—I am burnt out—all burnt out——"

"You need strength."

"I haven't the desire for it any longer."

"Not the desire to face things pluckily?"

"No—no longer. Everything's dead in me except the longing for—quiet. I'll pay any price for it—except misuse of friends."

"How could you misuse Rix by marrying him?"

"By accepting what I could never return."

"Love?"

"Yes."

"Does he ask that?"

"N-no—not now. But—he wants it. And I haven't it to give. So I can't take his—and let him work all his life for my comfort—I can't take it from Sir Charles and accept the position and fortune he offered me once——"

She lay silent a moment, then unclosed her eyes.

"Molly," she said, "I don't believe that Sir Charles is going to mind very much."

Molly met her eyes for an instant, very near, and a pale flash of telepathy passed between them. Then Strelsa smiled.

"You mean Chrysos," said Molly.

"Yes.... Don't you think so?"

"She's little more than a child.... I don't know. Men are that way—men of Sir Charles's age and experience are likely to drift that way.... But if you are done with Sir Charles, what he does no longer interests me—except that the Lacys will become insufferable if——"

"Don't talk that way, dear."

"I don't like the family—except Chrysos."

"Then be glad for her—if it comes true.... Sir Charles is a dear—almost too perfectly ideal to be a man.... I do wish it for his sake.... He was a little unhappy over me I think."

"He adores you still, you little villain!" whispered Molly, fondling her. "But—let poets sing and romancers rave—there's nothing that starves as quickly as love. And Sir Charles has been long fasting—good luck to him and more shame on you!"

Strelsa laughed, cleared her brow and eyes of the soft bright hair, and, flinging out both arms, took Molly to her heart in a swift, hard embrace.

"There!" she said, breathless, "I adore you anyhow, Molly.... I feel better, too. I'm glad you talked to me.... Do you think I'll get anything for my house?"

"Yes, when you sell it. That's the hopeless part of it just at this time of year——"

"Perhaps my luck will turn," said Strelsa. "You know I've had an awful lot of the other kind all my life."

They laughed.

Strelsa went on: "Perhaps when I sell everything I'll have enough left over to buy a little house up here near you, Molly, and have pigs and chickens and a cow!"

"How long could you stand that kind of existence, silly?"

Strelsa looked gravely back at her, then with a sigh: "It seems as though I could stand it forever, now. You know I seem to be changing a little all the while. First, when Mrs. Sprowl found me at Colorado Springs and persuaded me to come to New York I was mad for pleasure—crazy about anything that promised gaiety and amusement—anything to make me forget.

"You know I never went anywhere in Colorado Springs; I was too ill—ill most of the time.... And Mrs. Sprowl said she knew my mother—it's curious, but mother never said anything about her—and she cared for fashionable people.

"So I came to New York last winter—and you know the rest—I got tired physically, first; then so many wanted to marry me—and so many women urged me to do so many things—and I was unhappy about Rix—and then came this awful financial crash——"

"Stop thinking of it!"

"Yes; I mean to. I only wanted you to understand how, one by one, emotions and desires have been killed in me during the last four years.... And even the desire for wealth and position—which I clung to up to yesterday—somehow, now—this morning—has become little more than a dreamy wish.... I'd rather have quiet if I could—if there's enough money left to let me rest somewhere——"

"There will be," said Molly, watching her.

"Do you think so? And—then there would be no necessity for—for——"

"Langly!"

Strelsa flushed. "I wonder," she mused. "I wonder whether—but it seems impossible that I should suddenly find I didn't care for everything I cared for this winter. Perhaps I'm too tired to care just now."

"It might be," said Molly, "that something—for example your friendship with Rix—had made other matters seem less important."

The girl looked up quickly, saw nothing in Molly's expression to disturb her, then turned her eyes away, and lay silent, considering.

If her friendship for Quarren had imperceptibly filled her mind, even crowding aside other and most important matters, she did not realise it. She thought of it now, and of him—recalling the letter she had written.

Vaguely she was aware of the difference in her attitude toward life since she wrote that letter only a few days before. To what was it due? To his letter in reply now lying between the leaves of her New Testament on the table beside her? This was his letter:

"Hold out, Strelsa! Matters are going well with me. Your tide, too, will turn before you know it. But neither man nor woman is going to aid you, only time, Strelsa, and—something that neither you nor I have bothered about very much—something that has many names in many tongues—but they all mean the same. And the symbol of what they mean is Truth.

"Why not study it? We never have. All sages of all times have studied it and found comfort; all saints in all ages have found in it strength.

"I find its traces in every ancient picture that I touch. But there are books still older that have lived because of it. And one man died for it—man or God as you will—the former is more fashionable.

"Lives that have been lived because of it, given for it, forgiven for its sake, are worth our casual study.

"For they say there is no greater thing than Truth. I can imagine no greater. And the search for it is interesting—fascinating—I had no idea how absorbing until recently—until I first saw you, who sent me out into the world to work.

"Hold out—and study this curious subject of Truth for a little while. Will you?

"If you'll only study it a while I promise that it will interest you—not in its formalisms, not in its petty rituals and observances, nor in its endless nomenclature, nor its orthodoxy—but just as you discover it for yourself in the histories of men and women—of saint and sinner—and, above all, in the matchless life of Him who understood them all.

"Non tu corpus eras sine pectore!"

Lying there, remembering his letter almost word for word, and where it now lay among printed pages incomprehensible to her except by the mechanical processes of formal faith and superficial observance, she wondered how much that, and the scarcely scanned printed page, might have altered her views of life.

Molly kissed her again and went away downstairs.

When she was dressed in her habit she went out to the lawn's edge where Langly and the horses had already gathered: he put her up, and they cantered away down the wooded road that led to South Linden.

After their first gallop they slowed to a walk on the farther hill slope, chatting of inconsequential things; and it seemed to her that he was in unusually good spirits—almost gay for him—and his short dry laugh rang out once or twice, which was more than she had heard from him in a week.

From moment to moment she glanced sideways at him, curiously inspecting the sleek-headed symmetry of the man, noticing, as always, his perfectly groomed figure, his narrow head and the well-cut lines of the face and jaw. Once she had seen him—the very first time she had ever met him at Miami—eating a broiled lobster. And somehow his healthy appetite, the clean incision of his sun-bronzed jaw and the working muscles, chewing and swallowing, fascinated her; and she never saw him but she thought of him eating vigorously aboard the Yulan.

"Langly," she said, "is it going to be disagreeable for you when Mrs. Ledwith returns to South Linden?"

He looked at her leisurely, eyes, as always, slightly protruding:

"Why?"

"The newspapers."

"Probably," he said.

"Then—what are you going to do about it?"

"About what?"

"The papers."

"Nothing."

"Or—about Mrs. Ledwith?"

"Be civil if I see her."

"Of course," she said, reddening. "I was wondering whether gossip might be nipped in the bud if you left before she arrives and remained away until she leaves."

His prominent eyes were searching her features all the while she was speaking; now they wandered restlessly over the landscape.

"It's my fashion," he said, "to face things as they come."

"If you don't mind I'd rather have you go," she said.

"Where?"

"Anywhere you care to."

He said: "I have told you a thousand times that the thing to do is to take Molly Wycherly 'board the Yulan, and——"

"I do not care to do it until our engagement is announced."

"Very well," he said, swinging around in his saddle, "I'll announce it to-day and we'll go aboard this evening and clear out."

"Wh-what!" she faltered.

"There's no use waiting any longer," he said. "Mrs. Ledwith and my fool of an aunt are coming to-morrow. Did you know that? Well, they are. And every dirty newspaper in town will make the matter insidiously significant! If my aunt hadn't taken it into her head to visit Mrs. Ledwith at this particular moment, there would have been few comments. As it is there'll be plenty—and I don't feel like putting up with them—I don't propose to for my own sake. The time comes, sooner or later, when a man has got to consider himself."

After a short silence Strelsa raised her gray eyes:

"Has it occurred to you to consider, me, Langly?"

"What? Certainly. Haven't I been doing that ever since we've been engaged——"

"I—wonder," she mused.

"What else have I been doing?" he insisted—"denying myself the pleasure of you when I'm half crazy about you——"

"What!"

A dull flush settled under his prominent cheek-bones: he looked straight ahead of him between his horse's ears as he rode, sitting his saddle like the perfect horseman he was, although his mount felt the savage pain of a sudden and reasonless spurring and the wicked curb scarcely controlled him.

Strelsa set her lips, not looking at either horse or man on her right, nor even noticing her own mare who was cutting up in sympathy with the outraged hunter at her withers.

"Langly?"

"Yes?"

"Has it ever occurred to you how painful such scandalous rumours must be for Mrs. Ledwith?"

"Can I help them?"

Strelsa said, thoughtfully: "What a horrible thing for a woman! It was generous of your aunt to show people what she thought of such cruel stories."

"Do you think," he said sneeringly, "that my excellent aunt was inspired by any such motive? You might as well know—if you don't know already—" and his pale eyes rested a moment on the girl beside him—"that my aunt is visiting Mrs. Ledwith solely to embarrass me!"

"How could it embarrass you?"

"By giving colour to the lies told about me and the Ledwiths," he said in a hard voice—"by hinting that Mary Ledwith, free to marry, is accepted by my aunt; and the rest is up to me! That's what that female relative of mine has just done—" His big, white teeth closed with a click and he spurred his horse cruelly again and checked him until the slavering creature almost reared over backward.

"If you maltreat that horse again, Langly, I'll leave you. Do you understand?" she said, exasperated.

"I beg your pardon—" Again his jaw fairly snapped, but the horse did not suffer from his displeasure.

"What has enraged you so?" she demanded.

"This whole business. There isn't anything my aunt could have done more vicious, more contemptible, than to visit Mrs. Ledwith at this moment. I'll get it from every quarter, now."

"I suppose she will, too."

"My aunt? No such luck!"

"I mean Mrs. Ledwith."

"She? Oh, I suppose so."

Strelsa said between tightening lips:

"Is there nothing you can do, no kindness, no sacrifice you can make to shield Mrs. Ledwith?"

He stared at her, then his eyes roamed restlessly:

"How?"

"I don't know, Langly.... But if there is anything you could do——"

"What? My aunt and the papers are determined that I shall marry her! I take it that you are not suggesting that, are you?"

"I am suggesting nothing," she replied in a low voice.

"Well, I am. I'm suggesting that you and Molly and I go aboard the Yulan and clear out to-night!"

"You mean—to announce our engagement first?"

"Just as you choose," he said without a shade of expression on his features.

"You would scarcely propose that I sail with you under any other circumstances," she said sharply.

"I leave it to you and Mrs. Wycherly. The main idea is to clear out and let them howl and tear things up."

"Howl at Mrs. Ledwith and tear her to tatters while we start around the world on the Yulan?" nodded Strelsa. She was rather white, but she laughed; and he, hearing her, turned and laughed, too—a quick bark of a laugh that startled both horses who were unaccustomed to it.

"Oh, I guess they won't put her out of business," he said. "She's young and handsome and there are plenty of her sort to marry her—even Dankmere would have a chance there or—" he hesitated, and decided to refrain. But she understood perfectly, and lost the remainder of her colour.

"You mean Mr. Quarren," she said coolly.

"I didn't," he replied, lying. And she was aware of his falsehood, too.

"What started those rumours about Mrs. Ledwith and you, Langly?" she asked in the same pleasantly even tone, and turned her horse's head toward home at the same time. He made his mount pivot showily on his hocks and drew bridle beside her.

"Oh, they started at Newport."

"How?"

"How do I know? Ledwith and I were connected in business matters; I saw more or less of them both—and he was too busy to be with his wife every time I happened to be with her. So—you know what they said."

"Yes. When you and she were lunching at different tables at the Santa Regina you used to write notes to her, and everybody saw you."

"What of it?"

"Nothing."

"That is just it; there was nothing in it."

"Except her reputation.... What a silly and careless girl! But a man doesn't think—doesn't care very much I fancy. And then everybody was offensively sorry for Chester Ledwith. But that was not your lookout, was it, Langly?"

Sprowl turned his narrow face and looked at her in silence; and after a moment misjudged her.

"It was not my fault," he said quietly. "I liked his wife and I was friendly with him until his gutter habits annoyed me."

"He went to pieces, didn't he?"

Once more Sprowl inspected her features, warily. Once more he misjudged her.

"He's gone to smash," he said—"but what's that to us?"

"I wonder," she smiled, but had to control the tremor of her lower lip by catching it between her teeth and looking away from the man beside her. Quickly the hint of tears dried out in her gray eyes—from whatever cause they sprang glimmering there to dim her eyesight. She bent her head, absently arranging, rearranging and shifting her bridle.

"The thing to do," he said, curling his long moustache with powerful fingers—"is for the Wycherlys to stand by us now—and the others there—that little Lacy girl—and Sir Charles if he chooses. We'll have to take the whole lot of them aboard I suppose."

"Suppose I go with you alone," she said in a low voice.

He started in his saddle, turned on her a face that was reddening heavily. For an instant she scarcely recognised him, so thick his lips seemed, so congested the veins in forehead and neck. He seemed all mouth and eyes and sanguine colour—and big, even teeth, now, as the lips drew aside disclosing them.

"Would you do that, Strelsa?"

"Why not?"

"Would you do it—for me?"

Her rapid breathing impeded speech; she said something inarticulate; he leaned from his saddle and caught her in his left arm.

"By God," he stammered, "I knew it! You can have what you like from me—I don't care what it is!—take it—fill out your own checks—only let's get out of here before those damned women ruin us both!"

She had strained back and aside from him, and was trying to guide her mare away, but his powerful arm crushed her and his hot breath fell on her face and neck.

"You can have it your own way I tell you—I swear to God I'll marry you——"

"What!"

Almost strangled she wrenched herself free, panting, staring; and he realised his mistake.

"We can't get a licence if we leave to-night," he said, breathing heavily. "But we can touch at any port and manage that."

"You—you would take me—permit me to go—in such a manner?" she breathed, still staring at him.

"It's necessity, isn't it? Didn't you propose it? It makes no difference to me, Strelsa. I told you I'd do anything you wished."

"What did you mean—what did you mean by—by—" But she could go no further in speech or thought.

"The thing to do," he said calmly, "is not to fly off our heads or become panic-stricken. You're doing the latter; I lost control of myself—after what you gave me to hope—after what you said—showing your trust in me," he added, moistening his thick dry lips with his tongue. "I lost my self-command—because I am crazy for you, Strelsa—there's no sense in pretending otherwise—and you knew it all the time, you little coquette!

"What do you think a man's made of? You wanted a business arrangement and I humoured you; but you knew all the while, and I knew, that—that I am infatuated, absolutely mad about you." He added, boldly: "And I have reason to think it doesn't entirely displease you, haven't I?"

She did not seem to hear him. He laid his gloved hand over hers, and recoiled before her eyes as from a blow.

"Are you angry?" he asked.

Her teeth were still working on her under lip. She made no answer.

"Strelsa—if you really feel nothing for me—if you mean what you have said about a purely business agreement—I will hold to it. I thought for a moment—when you said—something in your smile made me think——"

"You need not think any further," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I came with you this morning to tell you that I will not marry you."

"That's nonsense! I've hurt you—made you angry——"

"I came for that reason," she repeated. "I meant to do it as soon as I had the courage. I meant to do it gently. Now I don't care how I do it. It's enough for you to know that I will not marry you."

"Is that final?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it. I know perfectly well I was—was too impulsive, too ardent——"

She turned her face away with a faint, sick look at the summer fields where scores of birds sang in the sunshine.

"See here," he said, his manner changing, "I tell you I'm sorry. I ask your pardon. Whatever you wish shall be done. Tell me what to do."

After a few moments she turned toward him again.

"A few minutes ago I could have told you what to do. I would have told you to marry Mary Ledwith. Also I would have been wrong. Now, as you ask me, I tell you not to marry her."

His eyes were deadly dangerous, but she met them carelessly.

"No," she said, "don't marry any woman after your attentions have made her conspicuous. It will be pleasanter for her to be torn to pieces by her friends."

"You are having your vengeance," he said. "Take it to the limit, Strelsa, and then let us be reconciled."

"No, it is too late. It was too late even before we started out together. Why—I didn't realise it then—but it was too late long ago—from the day you spoke as you did in my presence to Mr. Quarren. That finished you, Langly—if, indeed, you ever really began to mean anything at all to me."

He made a last effort and the veins stood out on his forehead:

"I am sorry I spoke to Quarren as I did. I like him."

She said coolly: "You hate him. You and Mr. Caldera almost ruined him in that acreage affair."

"You are mistaken. Caldera squeezed him; I did not. I knew nothing about it. My agents attend to such petty matters. What motive have I for disliking Quarren?"

She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully: "Perhaps because you thought he was devoted to me—and I to him.... And you were right," she added: "I am devoted to him because he is a man and a clean one."

"Have you ended?"

"Ended what?"

"Punishing me."

Her lips curled slightly: "I am afraid you are inclined to self-flattery, Langly. We chasten those whom we care for."

"Are you silly enough to dismiss me through sheer pique?" he said between his teeth.

"Pique? I don't understand. I've merely concluded that I don't need your fortune and I don't want your name. You, personally, never figured in the proposed arrangement."

His visage altered alarmingly:

"Who have you got on the string now!" he broke out—"you little adventuress! What damned fool is damned fool enough to marry you when anybody could get you for less if they care to spend the time on you——"

Suddenly his arm shot out and he wrenched her bridle, dragging her horse around and holding him there.

"Are you mad?" she whispered, white to the lips. "Take your hand off my bridle!"

"For another word," he said between clinched teeth, "I'd ride you down and spoil that face of yours! Hold your tongue and listen to me. I've stood all I'm going to from you. I've done all the cringing and boot-licking that is going to be done. You're the sort that needs curb and spurs, and you'll get them if you cut up with me. Is that plain?"

She had carried no crop that morning or she would have used it; her bridle was useless; spurring might have dragged them both down under the horses' feet.

"For the last time," he said, "you listen to me. I love you. I want you. You haven't a cent; you could fill out any check you chose to draw over my signature. Now if you are not crazy, or a hopeless fool, behave yourself."

A great sob choked her; she forced it back and sat, waiting, eyes almost closed.

"Strelsa, answer me!"

There was no reply.

"Answer me, for God's sake!"

She opened her eyes.

"Will you marry me?"

"No."

His eyes seemed starting from his head and the deep blood rushed to his face and neck, and he flung her bridle into her face with an inarticulate sound.

Then, slowly, side by side they advanced along the road together. A groom met them at Witch-Hollow; Strelsa slipped from her saddle without aid and, leisurely, erect, smiling, walked up to the veranda where Molly stood reading the morning paper.

"Hello dear," she said. "Am I very late for luncheon?"

"It's over. Will you have a tray out here?"

"May I?"

"Don't you want to change, first?"

"Yes, thanks."

Molly glanced up from the paper:

"Isn't Langly stopping for luncheon with you?"

"No."

Molly looked at her curiously:

"Did you enjoy your gallop?"

"We didn't gallop much."

"Spooned?"

Strelsa shuddered slightly. The elder woman dropped her paper and gazed at her.

"You don't mean to say it's all off, Strelsa!"

"Entirely. Please don't let's speak of it again—or of him—if you don't mind——"

"I don't!—you darling!—you poor darling! What has that creature done to you?"

"Don't speak of him, please."

"No, I won't. Oh, I'm so glad, Strelsa!—I can't tell you how happy, how immensely relieved—and that cat of an aunt of his here to make mischief!—and poor Mary Ledwith——"

"Molly, I—I simply can't talk about it—any of it——"

She turned abruptly, entered the house, and ran lightly up the stairs. Molly waited for her, grimly content with the elimination of Langly Sprowl and already planning separate campaigns in behalf of Sir Charles and Quarren.

She was still absorbed in her scheming when Strelsa came down. There was not a trace of any emotion except pleasure in her face. In her heart it was the same; only an immense, immeasurable relief reigned there, calming and exciting her alternately. But her face was yet a trifle pale; her hands still unsteady; and every delicate nerve, slowly relaxing from the tension, was regaining its normal quiet by degrees.

Her appetite was excellent, however. Afterward she and Molly chose neighbouring rockers, and Molly, lighting a cigarette, opened fire:

"Is it to be Sir Charles after all, darling?" she asked caressingly.

Strelsa laughed outright, then, astonished that she had not shrunk from a renewal of the eternal pressure, looked at Molly with wide gray eyes.

"I don't know what's the matter with me to-day," she said; "I seem to be able to laugh. I've not been very well physically; I've had a ghastly morning; I'm homeless and wretchedly poor—and I'm laughing at it all—the whole thing, Molly. What do you suppose is the matter with me?"

"You're not in love, are you?" asked Molly with calm suspicion.

"No, I'm not," said the girl with a quiet conviction that disconcerted the elder woman.

"Then I don't see why you should be very happy," said Molly honestly.

Strelsa considered: "Perhaps it's because to-day I feel unusually well. I slept—which I don't usually."

"You're becoming devout, too," said Molly.

"Devout? Oh, you saw me reading in my Testament.... It's an interesting book, Molly," she said naÏvely. "You know, as children, and at school, and in church we don't read it with any intelligence—or listen to it in the right way.... People are odd. We have our moments of contrition, abasement, fright, exaltation; but at bottom we know that our religion and a fair observance of it is a sound policy of insurance. We accept it as we take out insurance in view of eventualities and the chance of future fire——"

"That's flippant," said Molly.

"I really didn't mean it so.... I was wondering about it all. Recently, re-reading the New Testament, I was struck by finding so much in it that I had never noticed or understood.... You know, Molly, after all Truth is the greatest thing in the world."

"So I've heard," observed Molly drily.

"Oh, I've heard it, too, but never thought what it meant—until recently. You see Truth, to me, was just telling it as often as possible. I never thought much about it—that it is the basis of everything worthy and beautiful—such as old pictures—" she added vaguely—"and those things that silversmiths like Benvenuto Cellini did——"

"What?"

Strelsa coloured: "Everything worthy is founded on Truth," she said.

"That sounds like Tupper or a copy-book," said Molly, laughing. "For surely those profound reflections never emanated originally from you or Rix—did they?"

Strelsa, much annoyed, picked up the field glasses and levelled them on the river.

Sir Charles was out there in a launch with Chrysos Lacy. Chrysos fished and Sir Charles baited her hook.

"That's a touching sight," said Strelsa, laughing.

Molly said crossly: "Well, if you don't want him, for goodness' sake say so!—and let me have some credit with the Lacys for engineering the thing."

"Take it, darling!" laughed the girl, "take the credit and let the cash go—to Chrysos!"

"How indelicate you can be, Strelsa!"

"Oh, I am. I'm in such rude health that it's almost vulgar. After all, Molly, there's an immense relief in getting rid of your last penny and knowing nothing worse can happen to you."

"You might die."

"I don't care."

"Everybody cares whether they live or die."

The girl looked at her, surprised.

"I don't," she said, "—really."

"Of course you do."

"But why should I?"

"Nonsense, Strelsa. No matter how they crack up Heaven, nobody is in a hurry to go there."

"I wasn't thinking of Heaven.... I was just curious to see what else there is—I'm in no hurry, but it has always interested me.... I've had a theory that perhaps to everybody worthy is given, hereafter, exactly the kind of heaven they expect—to Buddhist, Brahman, Mohammedan, Christian—to the Shinto priest as well as to the Sagamore.... There's plenty of time—I'm in no hurry, nor would it be too soon to-morrow for me to find out how near I am to the truth."

"You're morbid, child!"

"Less this very moment than for years.... Molly, do you know that I am getting well? I wish you knew how well I feel."

But Molly was no longer listening. High above the distant hangars where the men had gathered since early morning, a great hawk-like thing was soaring in circles. And already the distant racket of another huge winged thing came to her ears on the summer wind.

"I hope Jim will be careful," she said.