"Come in, Jerry," Jane said quietly.

He obeyed her, his face so white and set that he looked years older, like a stranger who had accidentally come in upon this, the most vital moment of her life.

Martin turned at sound of her words, with a sigh that was almost a groan. Jerry came across the long studio to them, looking at Jane. He stopped, facing her, still gazing at her.

"I have just told Jane that I love her," Martin said presently. Jerry nodded. "I think you ought to know."

"I have known it for some time," Jerry replied.

Martin shook his head.

"You could not have known it. I have only admitted it to myself in the last few days—since my freedom came."

"Your wife is dead?" Jerry asked quietly.

"Yes."

"What do you want me to do, Jane?" Jerry said.

"I want you to believe what Martin said—that he never knew he cared until now—that this hour brought the first word of sentiment between us. That it was an accident—an explosion. You do believe that, Jerry?"

"If you like."

"It is the truth."

"Don't let's talk about the truth of what has happened or what has not; the only question is: what are we to do?" Jerry cried sharply, like a man keeping difficult control of himself.

"I'll go," said Martin.

"No, you'll stay. Jane may need you," Jerry said.

"Very well. I am at her service entirely. I wanted to spare you," Martin said.

"You're a little late in considering me, Christiansen!" bitterly.

"Jerry, don't you see this is not anybody's fault? Martin didn't mean it to happen; I didn't mean it to; certainly you didn't. Can't we be quite patient with each other and try to get it straightened?"

"I'm trying to be patient, Jane, but I'm not a saint, and by God! the thing I want to do is to kick him, so don't begrudge me a few words; after all, you are my wife; this is my house, he has outraged my rights."

"Jerry, you haven't any rights in me or in our home apart from our rights. Won't you understand that your honour is my honour, that only in so far as we let it get smirched can it be smirched."

"I can't match words with you, Jane. Say what you want and let's get through with it."

"Paxton, your wife has given me no reason to believe that my love is of any importance to her. Couldn't we...?"

"I'm not here to interrogate my wife, nor ask for any justification of her feelings. I only want her to decide what she wants me to do."

"Jerry, what do you want to do?" she asked him.

He hesitated several seconds.

"If you love him, I want to get out of your way as soon as possible," he answered.

"And if I do not love him?"

"Then I want him to get out."

Jane went over to the window and looked out into the early evening for some moments. The two men scarcely stirred. Then suddenly, as if something snapped, Jerry laughed.

"It's just like Candida, isn't it?" he said bitterly. "You, poet, must offer her high moments, and I, the dull husband, must offer my need of her!"

"Oh, Jerry, don't," said Jane, coming to him swiftly.

"Then for God's sake, put us out of our misery, Jane."

"I can't! I can't decide like this. It isn't fair to any of us. I don't know what I think—I'm all a seething misery of emotions and terror. I've got to have time. I've got to do it alone," she said breathlessly. "Can't you understand, Jerry? Martin's love is the biggest thing that has ever been offered to me; it is his whole being; I can't decide about it so!"

"What about my love?"

"You never offered me your love, Jerry; I have never known it for a moment since I married you."

"But we've lived together—we've had a child."

"I know; it never seemed sin to me, because I did not know what I was desecrating. Now I know that my soul received nothing from my senses, gave nothing to them, that is why I have been so unsatisfied."

"And our boy?"

Jane groaned in anguish at that thrust.

"That isn't fair, Paxton," Christiansen protested.

"It's none of it fair, if it comes to that. I'll take such advantage as I've got, rely on that."

"You love her, too!"

Jerry made no reply to that. Jane stood, her hands over her face. Then she spoke quickly.

"I want you to let me go away for a little, all by myself, with only Baby. I want you not to know where I am— I want to feel absolutely alone to work this thing out in my mind. Will you agree, Jerry?"

"How long will you be gone?"

"Not long. I promise to come back the minute my mind is made up."

"All right, if I have your word that you'll come back," said Jerry.

"Why, Jerry!" she exclaimed.

"I'm rather fond of the Bald One," he explained, using their love word for the baby.

She caught her breath for a second with the pain of it. Then she turned to Christiansen.

"You agree to this, Martin?"

"Yes."

"Then I will go in the morning. When I come back I will send for you."

"Thank you," he said, his eyes shining upon her.

He held out his hand and she laid hers in it. He lifted it to his lips. Then he turned to Jerry.

"I wish you would let me shake hands with you, Paxton."

Jerry hesitated a second, then he took Christiansen's hand and the big man went out.

"Thank you, Jerry, that was big of you," said Jane.

He smiled faintly and she saw how the last hour had deepened the lines in his face.

"You will want to make the preparations for your journey to-morrow. Can I do anything?"

"I'll tell you if I think of anything. I must decide first where to go."

"If you take Baby, you will need Anna, won't you? I'll get my meals somewhere else. I may even go stay at the club."

"That's very kind of you, Jerry. If Anna went with me, I could get Mrs. Biggs to look after the studio and cook for you, if you did want to stay here for a meal occasionally. Would you like that?"

"Yes, that's all right."

All of the next day Jane was busy with her preparations. She summoned Mrs. Biggs by telephone, announced the plan to Anna.

"But ain't this a bad time to travel with the baby?"

"No, I think not; a change will do all of us good."

"Mr. Paxton comin'?"

"No, just we three."

"Who'll take care of him?"

"Mrs. Biggs."

"Oh, her!"

Anna departed to attend to her dinner and Jane went into the nursery to lay out her son's travelling outfit. He was awake and crowing lustily. Presently, as she selected or discarded small garments, Jerry came in and went to the cradle side. Small Jerry lifted his voice in greeting and displayed his entire smile.

"Hello, old man," said his father.

Baby gurgled back.

"All right for me to take him downstairs with me, Jane?" he asked.

"Of course. Take a blanket along in case it's cool down there."

She watched Jerry's deft handling of the baby as he wrapped him and tucked him into his arm. There was a mist in her eyes as he went out, and she dropped her hands in her lap, with the question as to whether she was doing the right thing. Was she being unfair to Jerry? Should she give it all up—stay where she was—let well enough be? Then she thought of Martin—of the rights to her consideration which his great offering made for him; she thought of her own rights—what it would mean to her to know a great love—to love greatly. Little Jerry's shrill cry from below brought her back. Her first impulse was right, to get away from all the things that pulled upon her—to see the horizon on all sides—to think to that line.

The piles of Baby's things were ready and she went to her own room to sit down in the dusk and decide where she should go. She did not know many places about New York, the summer places she and Jerry had considered would be too bleak and dreary now in the late winter. She thought back to the New Jersey towns she knew as a girl. There was one holiday she specially remembered, spent in Lakewood, with a maiden lady, Miss Garnett, who owned a little house and took people to board. She had never thought of it in years; the woman might be dead now, but she would try it anyway. She would like that cottage better than a hotel. She wired, asking a return wire at once.

The more she thought about the place, the more she decided that was where she would go. It was near New York and yet she could be alone there. She remembered walks and woods. She called the station and learned about trains. Then she set herself to her own packing. Once she stole out to the balcony and looked over. Jerry was singing "Ride-a-cock-horse," and little Jerry was trying to carry the tune with the strange noises he used in self-expression. They were unconscious of an intruder, so Jane slipped away again.

Shortly she came downstairs in her hat and coat.

"Jerry, do you suppose you and Anna could get him to bed to-night? I have some errands."

"We'll manage," he answered. "Can't I do anything for you?" he added.

"No, thanks. I'll be back at dinner time," she replied.

Jane finished her errands and dropped in upon Bobs for a little visit.

"Baby and Anna and I are going off for a little outing to-morrow. Look after Jerry a bit, will you, Bobs?"

"Sure. But where are you going?"

"It's a secret."

Bobs's eyebrows went up, but she said nothing.

"Didn't you ever want to get away from every living soul you know and think your own thoughts for a whole week?" demanded Jane.

"Often. Usually my crises come when I'm too poor to go anywhere, though."

"Jerry is generous with money, so I can go."

"Does he understand this—need?"

"I think so."

"Well, good luck to you, dear. Be careful of our child and get your think out," laughed Bobs as Jane left.

She would have marvelled had she seen her guest stop by the studio, where she and Jerry had begun their experiment, and lay her head against the door for a second, like a troubled child against its mother.

Life was so simple then, when she had accepted Jerry's wild proposal; it had grown so complex now, so woven of her own and other people's heart strings.

When she arrived at home she found big Jerry beside little Jerry's bed, one small hand clasped about his father's forefinger, while big Jerry sat very still for fear of waking him. Jane smiled at them.

"It won't wake him, see," she said, and slowly loosed the tiny fingers.

When Anna came up and announced dinner, she told Jane in delighted detail how Jerry had put the baby to bed. He refused to let her touch him, he had done it all himself.

"It tickled the baby!" she laughed, as she went off to her kitchen.

Later, at the table, they both fought off any return of emotional topics.

"Do you know when you leave?" he asked her.

"Yes, at ten."

"You will let me get you aboard the train?"

"We would appreciate it very much, thank you, Jerry."

"Shall I tell people you've gone for a visit?"

"Yes. I told Bobs."

"Is Mrs. Biggs coming?"

"Yes. She'll be here when we go. I invited Billy to come, too."

"That's right. Quite like old times."

"You must go about with your uptown friends and be very gay, so you won't be lonesome."

"I'll manage."

"I hope the Melisande picture will not be installed before I get back. I want to see that," she said.

"I'm nearly through with it, now."

"It's your best work, Jerry. I know it is going to be a success for you."

He smiled mirthlessly.

"Do you remember what I said on our way to be married?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know why I remember it—wasn't so very brilliant—but it comes to me. I said: 'this is the kind of thing they talked in the tumbrils.' We always face our crises with platitudes, Jane."

"Don't most people, Jerry? It's the child in us clinging to what we know, I suppose."

"As the Bald One clings to my finger!"

She nodded and rose.

"I still have packing to do. If you'll excuse me, I'll go right up."

"Good-night, Jane," he said steadily.

"Good-night, and thank you, Jerry."

"For what?"

"For understanding."

"But I don't. I don't understand anything about you. I don't know why you're going any more than I know where—but I'm trying to see that that doesn't make any difference, that it's your right to see this through your own way."

"Jerry, that's better than understanding, that's faith," she said softly, and left him pondering.