The seemingly interminable hours of the Sunday following the races passed slowly by. Marion spent the afternoon in her own room trying to think over the possibilities of the near future. Her heedless conduct had now brought her to a position which demanded resolute decision, and, surrounded as she was by a maze of temptations, she required to exercise the calmest judgment. A strong nature is able, at such times, to penetrate the future and select the wisest course, but it is far easier, and perhaps more natural, to drift aimlessly along, trusting to no other guide than fatuity. At moments a faint sense of fear feebly urged Marion to hold back, but wild fancies burned so impetuously in her heart that she was carried on past the point where she might have calmly considered the probable result of her conduct.

At last she was a woman, she thought, and felt as other women did. After years passed in eking out a monotonous existence amid repellent surroundings she felt emancipated by the knowledge that she had found the love her nature craved. Now that Duncan had brought her this love should she refuse the gift and voluntarily return to the slavery in which she had lived so long? This was the question she asked herself. It would be transgressing the rules of society if she permitted herself to enjoy this love, but what difference did that make? For years she had been religiously obeying those rules, and her existence had been one of wretched discontent. Certainly the other course could not make her more unhappy, and, besides, she had seen women in other cities break loose from the bonds of convention and still maintain a standing in the world. In fact, they had been almost openly applauded for their action, and certainly had not suffered, socially, for their courage. After all, virtue was little else than fear, and it was only a weak nature that would permit itself to be coerced by the danger of discovery. In older places that danger had been modified by the liberality of an advanced society, and as she had only the restricted provincialism of Chicago to fear, she felt a secret delight in defying the prudish gossips of the Knox Presbyterian Church. After all, she felt that she was clever enough to elude discovery, and relying on her discretion she permitted herself to dismiss fear from her heart as unworthy of a superior nature. It was by such reasoning as this that she forced her judgment to approve the promptings of her heart.

Marion watched the moments roll by. As the hour approached when she was to meet Duncan alone she felt calmer than she had at any time since their parting. At six o'clock she heard the brougham drive up to the door to take her husband to the station, and when he came into her room to bid her good-by, she calmly kissed him, congratulating herself that she had not betrayed the slightest agitation. All love for him was dead, she felt, and when he lingered for another embrace, she wondered that he could not see her heart was cold and unmoved. She smiled as he left. "Foolish fellow," she thought, "he has never known the true warmth of my heart so he will be content with the cold effigy of love I give him." However, the words seemed very harsh, even to her, and she wondered if it really were she who had spoken them. Inspired by a curiosity to see if she had changed during the day, she looked at herself in the long mirror of her dressing-room and felt a secret pleasure in the thought that the image before her was that of a woman of the world to whom none of the experiences of life were strange. She thought her face showed more character, too, and she flattered herself that it would not be easy for anyone to read her thoughts in those deep, black eyes.

The little clock on her dressing-table struck half-past six, and she rang for her maid to dress her hair. After spending an hour-and-a-quarter at her toilet, she again arose and surveyed herself in the long mirror. Her pulses seemed, somehow, to be beating more rapidly now, and the calmness she had felt before was deserting her. The sense of fear came into her heart again, and even her conscience uttered a faint remonstrance at the step she was taking. She thought over all the chances of discovery and wondered whether there was danger from the servants. Her cook and her butler were both French and, as they could speak but a few words of English, would say nothing; the footman and housemaids she had permitted to go out, and she felt that she could trust the discretion of her own maid. As for her neighbors, the people living next door were not of her set, and she drew a breath of relief on looking out of the window and finding that, owing to a cloudy sky, it was already nearly dark. Still she was far from calm, and, thinking she looked pale, she pinched her cheeks to bring color into them.

It was time for Duncan to arrive. Should she feign illness and send him away? She felt that it was too late for her to turn back now, and the thought of Duncan brought back memories which, for the moment, drove fear completely from her heart, and aroused the reckless spirit which had already carried her so far. She took a hasty glance at herself in the glass, gave a final touch to her hair, and hurried down the stairway to the little French room where she had been with Duncan on the afternoon of Mrs. McSeeney's tea. No longer able to reason out excuses for her actions she abandoned herself to the contending fancies which filled her mind. She closed her eyes and fancied that she was being borne recklessly on toward a frightful precipice by some subtle force against whose power she was helpless. It seemed to her that she was being dashed down! down! Then she imagined that she saw the remains of her former self lying, bruised and shattered, at the bottom of the abyss before her. She grasped the chair-arms convulsively, then smiled at her childish fancies, yet deep down in her heart there was a feeling, growing stronger each moment, which urged her to turn back.

The door-bell rang. Marion could feel her heart beating with suppressed excitement, and it seemed an interminable time before the measured steps of FranÇois resounded on the hardwood floor. The door opened and Duncan entered. She could hear him taking off his coat in the hall, and she felt her brain whirling with the dizziness of confused emotions. The wheels of a carriage rumbled on the pavement outside and seemed to stop before the door. What did it mean? Marion trembled at the thought that it might be some one coming to the house. Duncan took a step on the hall floor and then a key rattled in the front door. Her husband had returned. She could feel her pulses stop, and her limbs grow numb with fright. Duncan in the house, the hour, the dinner for two. What excuse could she make? The door slammed, and she heard her husband's voice in the hall. "Hello, Grahame," he said, "are you here? Just going, eh? Nonsense, stop and take pot-luck with us. I know my wife will be glad to have you. She expected to be alone."

Marion was saved. She could scarcely believe her senses; yet a sincere feeling of gratefulness to her husband came into her heart, and she drew a deep, free breath which brought the color back to her cheeks, and calmed her excited nerves. All her disturbed thoughts seemed quickly to vanish, and she felt as though she could hardly restrain herself from uttering a shout of joy. An hour before she would have felt resentment toward her husband, but the specious arguments with which she had pardoned the wrong emotions of her heart seemed, somehow, to have fled, and she could realize the danger which had threatened her. Had she been left to meet Duncan alone, she might not have proved strong enough to resist his personality, but now she felt in her heart that the peril was passed.

Roswell and Duncan came into the room. "I missed my train," Roswell said, "so I thought I would come back and dine with you, my dear. I found Grahame in the hall and persuaded him to remain. I knew you would be glad to have him."

"Your husband is extremely kind, Mrs. Sanderson," said Duncan. "I expected to dine alone at the Club."

"Mr. Grahame is always welcome," smiled Marion, wondering what would be the outcome of this discordant dinner. She looked at her husband to see if his manner betrayed any excitement, but she could notice nothing unusual.

"You won't mind if I run away early, my dear, will you?" he said. "There is another train at half-past ten."

"I wish you wouldn't go to-night, dear," answered Marion.

"I must. The business is important."

Marion turned away thoughtfully, and found her eyes wandering toward Duncan. She noticed that his face wore an amused expression, as though the situation seemed laughable, and the matter were a huge joke. This carelessness provoked Marion, and she caught herself wondering why she felt unmoved in his presence. He was in evening dress, and she was amazed that her husband did not notice that, for an afternoon call, this was an anachronism.

After a few moments of desultory conversation, FranÇois appeared in the doorway. "Ze dinner ez served, Madame," he solemnly announced, and the little party moved silently toward the dining-room. As they crossed the hallway Marion could not help smiling at the strange turn affairs had taken. It seemed to her so like an amusing situation in some comedy, and she felt as though she were an actress going through with a part in a play which would, of course, end happily when the curtain was rung down on the last act.

The party filed slowly into the dining-room, and took their seats at the little, round table. A small candelabrum, placed in the centre of the cloth, supplied the only light, and the bright rays of the candles, falling on the white table-cover and shining plate, formed a cozy contrast to the oak-lined walls looming in the distance. Duncan sat on Marion's right, while her husband was placed on her left. During the silence which came as they took their places, Marion looked curiously at both men. Duncan took his seat with a satisfied air, and as he unfolded his napkin a careless smile came to his lips. In her husband's eyes she saw an expression of determination, and she thought it unusual and out of keeping with the genial manner in which he broke the silence by saying: "I consider it very lucky we trapped you into staying, Grahame. I have scarcely seen you since you arrived, and I would like to have a friendly chat before we come to that elevator business. I shall be back from St. Louis on Sunday and we can talk about the loan on Monday."

It was a surprise to Marion to learn that her husband and Duncan were evidently so intimate. She thought they were scarcely acquainted.

"Any time will do me, Sanderson," answered Duncan, and then the party began to take their soup in silence. FranÇois poured out the sherry; Duncan took up his glass and drained it at one draught. As he put it down, he looked at Marion with an amused expression of triumph, then, glancing toward her husband, he shrugged his shoulders in a manner which conveyed contempt. Marion felt a sense of resentment toward Duncan for assuming such an attitude. His entire manner seemed to give the impression that he felt quite as much at home as the master of the house, and as the dinner progressed he treated her husband with the easy familiarity of one who felt the superiority of his position. Marion noticed that Roswell had never once changed the friendly tone of his manner, yet she could not help feeling that this extreme affability was, in some measure, assumed. The conversation was confined mainly to the two men, and Roswell seemed to lead it into channels where it was difficult for Duncan to follow, while the familiarity her husband showed with the great questions of current interest was astonishing to Marion. She had spent so little time with him that she was unfamiliar with his tastes, and the keenness with which he argued, together with the delicate manner in which he seemed to lay bare Duncan's ignorance, surprised her greatly.

Marion was glad to be a listener, as it gave her time to think. She seemed to be seized now with a dispassionate calmness, which permitted her to view her actions in a way she had never done before. The subtle spell which had bound her to Duncan seemed fast breaking, and although scarce an hour before she had been ready to confess to him the full warmth of her love, she now appeared to be at a great distance from him and looking at the past as in the pages of some book. Again and again she glanced toward him and wondered why he seemed so changed. She observed that he was drinking too much wine, and when he occasionally raised his glass and cast an insinuating glance toward her, she felt the spirit of resentment grow stronger and stronger. She asked herself if his power of fascination had gone, and she confessed that in the society of others, at least, he was not the same as when alone with her. Then she thought over the words which he had spoken to her, and how in his presence she had felt the subtle inspiration of a love which, it seemed to her, must burn forever. She looked up to see if she could feel the power his grey eyes had so often exerted over her, and she saw an angry blush come to his cheek. Roswell had called forth a confession of ignorance on a delicate point of finance. Duncan was clever, but he was not a deep student, and he often found himself at a loss for facts with which to substantiate his theories. He spoke a resentful word or two, and Marion thought it was unmanly for him to lose his temper.

The dinner wore on, and Marion found herself becoming more and more critical of Duncan's actions. She wondered if he were the man for whom, two hours before, she had been willing to venture everything. She began to analyze her feelings of the past six months, and she asked herself if the feeling he inspired was, after all, the love that her nature craved. Perhaps her doubts were momentary and would vanish, leaving her again the prey of wild desires. Yet she felt that her nature could not be so vacillating. She looked at Duncan again to reassure herself. Was he her ideal? He leaned his elbows on the table and made a noise as he ate. She wondered why she had not noticed this before, for she abhorred carelessness of manners.

"So you think a leisure class is what we need in the West," Roswell was saying as FranÇois removed the plates after the game course. Marion had always felt this lack to be one of the evils of Western life, and she looked to Duncan for a defense of her theory.

"Yes," answered Duncan. "I favor a landed class who spend their money freely and devote their time to something beside grubbing for dollars."

"I quite agree with you," said Roswell. "We men in the West live at too rapid a pace. In the ceaseless toil after money we become callous to the finer sentiments of life." Marion looked up in astonishment. She had thought her husband irredeemably absorbed in business. "We devote too little time," he continued, "to the development of the Æsthetic side of our natures. I think we should have more people of wealth whose time is spent in fostering the arts; but as for men of absolute leisure, I think we are better off without them."

"There I can't agree with you," answered Duncan, "if among men of leisure you include those whose lives are given to sport. Look at the sportsmen of England. We want more of that sort in this country. A hard riding set of men who stick at nothing. Such a life as they lead makes men of them."

Marion was too fond of literature and the arts to agree with Duncan. She had known some of these hunting men and she had a small opinion of their talents.

"In a degree I approve of your sentiments," said her husband. "If you will eliminate the taste for drink, cards, and vice from your sportsmen. Give him some brains and make him a useful member of society, who devotes much of his time to the improvement of his tenantry, and I grant you that his counterpart would be a desirable acquisition to American life."

"So you don't believe in the reckless sportsman of the old school."

"No, I confess I don't."

"Why, may I ask?"

"I think I can best answer that question by telling you an anecdote. I was once in North Carolina looking after some property. The place Where I was staying was one of the little villages in the mountains where the advent of a stranger is a matter of momentous importance. I happened to be in the village store one day when one of those tweed-and-knickerbocker Englishmen, who occasionally go there for shooting, walked in to purchase some powder. After he had received his package and was about to leave, the lean-faced cracker store-keeper detained him in conversation somewhat after this fashion:

"'Be you from Noo York, stranger?'

"The Englishman shook his head.

"'Philadelphy?'

"'No,' was the reply.

"'Chicago?'

"Another negative answer.

"'Waal, where be you from?'

"'London.'

"'Whew!' and the cracker gave a long whistle. 'What brought you all the way from London to Loneville?'

"'I came to amuse myself.'

"'Ter amuse yerself, heh! Well, that is mighty curious. What d' you do when you're to home?'

"'Nothing.'

"'How d' you live, anyway?'

"'My father supports me.'

"'Don't do nothing when you're to home, and yer father keeps ye?'

"'Yes.'

"'Waal, I'd like to ask ye jest one more question. What'ud you do 'f your father should bust?'

"That is my theory. I don't think any man should be brought up in such a way that he would have nothing to fall back on if his wealth should fail him. Give every young man an employment of some sort, no matter how rich he may be, and he will know what to do when his father 'busts'."

Marion, somehow, found herself agreeing with her husband's views. His ideas had always seemed so restricted before. She wondered why he was becoming so sensible.

FranÇois cleared the table and changed the glasses; the coffee was brought and Duncan and Roswell lighted their cigars. Marion usually remained during the smoking when the party was small, so the talk went on uninterruptedly, Roswell continuing his easy flow of anecdote and argument, and turning the conversation as one subject after another was suggested to his mind. Marion caught herself occasionally looking at her husband with a feeling of admiration, and wondered why she had never before discovered his charm of manner. She felt that he occasionally turned his keen eyes toward her as though he understood her thoughts, and she was afraid that he might be able to see her heart.

"I read a case in the paper this morning which impressed me sadly," said Roswell, putting down his empty coffee cup. "I knew the people and it seemed but the outcome of my fears."

"What was it?" asked Marion.

"The wife of a man I have known in business has left him. The husband went to Decatur on Thursday, and when he returned he found that she had fled the night before with her music teacher."

"It was probably a good riddance, wasn't it," said Duncan.

Marion thought these words unnecessarily harsh and she found herself looking appealingly at Roswell for a charitable reply.

"I can't say that," replied Roswell. "The trouble was that they had nothing in common. He was a man who began life as a page on the Board of Trade. By careful attention to business he worked his way up until he is now a very successful broker. He has, however, absolutely no social position, and no prospect of attaining one. When, two years ago, he went East, and married a girl who belonged to a good Syracuse family and brought her West, it must have been a bitter disappointment to the young wife to find herself denied the recognition which she was accustomed to receive at home. She was alone in a strange city. Her husband was away most of the time, and he was so completely wrapped up in business that his wife was left to her own resources. Can you condemn her entirely for doing as she did? It is all very well to behave if we have never been tempted, when, perhaps, under the same circumstances, we might act no better ourselves. For my part I think the husband is probably as much at fault as the wife."

Marion felt her heart leap with gratitude when she heard these words. Her husband's voice had softened as he spoke them, and his eyes wore a sad, thoughtful expression.

"I don't think you are right," said Duncan, draining a glass of claret. "No one but a fool will permit a woman to go astray under his eyes, and a fool deserves to lose his wife."

As he spoke these words he looked toward Marion with an insinuating expression which told her that his remark was directed at Roswell, and that he expected her to appreciate the humor of it. Marion felt a sense of thankfulness rise in her heart. Coarseness never could appeal to her sensitive nature and she shuddered when she thought that this was the man for whom she had been willing to risk her honor. She was beginning to find him out. Thank heaven, the knowledge came before it was too late.

Roswell was silent for a moment. Then he said, thoughtfully: "Any one of us may be cast to play the rÔle of fool. Unfortunately we never recognize just when we begin to play the part. I used to think as you do, Grahame. It is only lately I have begun to feel that it takes two to create a difference. Perhaps I am wrong, but I believe that, had my friend recognized sooner that his wife was made unhappy by his own neglect and the surroundings in which he placed her, the danger might have been averted."

For a while no one spoke. Marion gazed thoughtfully at the table; Duncan twirled a glass carelessly between his fingers and a smile played on his lips, while Roswell silently puffed his cigar and watched the blue wreaths of smoke curl gently upward.

"Shall we go into the next room, my dear?" said Roswell after a moment, dropping his half-finished cigar. "I have just time to catch my train."

"You are not going, are you?" said Marion, looking up, startled. "Please put off your trip," she added with a slight tone of appeal in her voice.

"I must go," he answered, rising from his chair.

The three people walked toward the hall. As they reached the door, Roswell stopped and motioned Duncan to lead the way. The younger man passed out, leaving Marion and her husband together. Roswell took both his wife's hands and drew her toward him.

"I must leave Grahame with you, my dear. Don't mind my running away. It is business and can't be helped."

"Don't go, Roswell," pleaded Marion, and she turned her head away so that he could not look into her face.

"I must, my darling. I must," he answered, and she felt his arms about her. She hid her face on his breast, and, ashamed of her unworthiness, she felt afraid to be left alone. "Good-by, dear," he said, and kissed her tenderly on her forehead. They walked silently through the hallway to the little French room, by the door. They found Duncan there, wandering carelessly about examining the ornaments. Stepping up to him, Roswell put out his hand and said simply: "I must leave you, Grahame. I have just time to catch my train. Sit here and finish your cigar. My wife will do her best to amuse you."

Duncan muttered a word of parting and Roswell hurried into the hallway. Marion took a seat in the farther end of the room and gazed thoughtfully toward the door where her husband had left. She could hear him putting on his coat and then the door closed behind him. The carriage rolled off, and as the last echo of the wheels died away she realized that she was alone with the man who had played such a strange part in her life. She felt brave now. The danger was past and her only thought was to prove worthy of the confidence her husband had placed in her. She looked at Duncan, wondering what his first move would be. He took a few steps on the floor. His eyes seemed to sparkle with merriment. "Well, I must say," he said, stopping in his desultory wandering and plunging his hands into his pockets, "that husband of yours is the most convenient person that I ever came across." Marion cast an angry glance toward him. All the resentment in her nature was aroused by these coarse words. Her dream of months had vanished, and in its place was a repulsive reality.

Duncan came toward her with a confident step and tried to take her hand. Marion jumped to her feet and pushed him back. "Don't touch me," she cried.

Duncan laughed. This new-found anger amused him and he did not believe she was in earnest. "Marion, dearest, we are alone," he said ardently. "We can enjoy our love and no one will interrupt."

He made another movement toward her. She drew back and looked defiantly at him.

"I hate you," she said. "Can't you see that I hate you."

"Hate is the first step to love," answered Duncan, still amused by her anger. "Let it fade away for I want to see love smile from those bewitching eyes."

Then he hesitated. He saw anger flashing from her dark eyes now, but he could not believe that he had lost the power he had so lately exerted over her, and he fancied that this resentment must be due to some whim. "Do you forget the past, dearest?" he said coaxingly, after a moment. "Do you forget our love of yesterday?"

"The unreasoning fancy of a moment is not love," answered Marion coldly.

Duncan saw now that the heart which he had felt so confident of his power to master had slipped from his grasp. Still the thought that so emotional a nature might yet be conquered by appeal prompted him to say, "What is the meaning of this change? Yesterday you loved me."

"That was yesterday. Much may happen in a day, Mr. Grahame."

"Yes," smiled Duncan sarcastically, drawing lines on the floor with the toe of his boot. "In a day one may learn the fickle nature of the woman one is foolish enough to love."

"Yes, and the character of the feeling one was foolish enough to fancy might be love," added Marion.

"Will you not listen to me?" he answered. "Some one has been poisoning your mind against me."

Marion felt that this distasteful interview must end. She had been the prey of too many emotions that day to bear up much longer. She felt a desire to fly away somewhere and escape from this man. Summoning her courage she looked full into Duncan's face and said, in a firm voice: "Mr. Grahame, I will not be insulted. I think there is nothing more to be said."

The color rose to Duncan's cheeks. His pride was touched, yet deep in his heart he could not help feeling ashamed of his own conduct. Revenge for another woman's actions had prompted him to act the part he had played, and there was still manhood enough in his callous heart to make him recognize that he deserved the treatment he was receiving. But pride prompted him to retreat boldly. "As you will, Mrs. Sanderson," he answered, coolly returning Marion's glance. "I came at your bidding and I leave at your command. I had been led to believe, by your actions in the past, that I should receive a more responsive welcome, but I acknowledge my mistake."

"We understand each other perfectly," said Marion. "Six months ago, Mr. Grahame, you challenged me to a game of skill. I think you know the game well enough to recognize that you have lost."

Duncan nodded assent and walked slowly toward the door. On the threshold he turned and looked at Marion. A feeling of admiration for the woman he had so misjudged prompted him to speak "Let me compliment your skill," he said. "I played that game with the assurance of an old hand and I lost. You were a novice, but you won."