Helen sits erect in the carriage, her lips pressed tightly together, her hands clasped in her lap.

Everet is very pale, and still seems to be acting half-irresponsibly. He watches her face. There is no change in its expression. He can draw no conclusion from it. Presently he touches her hand:

"Helen."

She turns her face and looks at him. There is no inquiry in the expression. It is merely an action indicating that she has heard him.

He pauses. After a moment, he asks in a low tone:

"Where do you want to go?"

An expression of surprise flits across her face for a moment.

Everet looks out of the window. After a moment:

"Where? To your rooms."

"You are acting under a great strain and excitement now, Helen. Would it not be better to wait a little, until you can think more calmly? Suppose I take you to the Arlington, and you remain there to-night. In the morning, whatever decision you have reached shall be carried out. Would not that be better, dear?"

"You do not want me to go with you?"

She speaks monotonously. He does not reply. She repeats it:

"You do not want me to go with you?"

Everet slips his arm about her. There is something pitiful about this woman sitting by him so white, and speaking in so hard a tone.

"Yes, yes, I want you. I was only thinking of you. I would have you do nothing you will repent, that is all. I—"

"I am going to your rooms. I have decided."

Still the same expressionless voice.

Everet lowers the window, and calls to the coachman:

"Go home."

He then puts the window up again, and resumes his erect attitude and the study of the face of the woman beside him. He feels as though he were acting in his sleep. All has occurred so quickly.

Helen's face seems to have changed in the last hour. The expression that has seemed to him one of innocence and helplessness, is impressing him now as one of determination and perhaps calculation. He is suddenly recalling many details of their acquaintance which coincide with this new impression she is producing—but she is a beautiful woman. Nothing can change that fact.

They do not speak again until they have reached Everet's rooms.

Everet opens the door with his latch-key, and Helen passes in as he holds the door open for her. She stands quite still in the centre of the room, abstractedly.

Everet turns the gas higher and stirs the fire in the grate. He goes about the rooms apparently taking no direct notice of her, for a moment, feeling a certain humiliation for her and himself in the situation.

She still stands with her wraps on, and finally Everet comes to her. He takes her hands in his. He says gently:

"Helen, you do not regret?"

She lifts her eyes and looks at him inquiringly:

"Regret? Why should I regret? I have your love?"

Everet catches his lip between his teeth. He replies hoarsely:

"Yes."

"Then why should I regret?"

She unfastens her cloak, and it slips to the floor, leaving her in evening dress, with white bare neck and arms. There is a difference in the atmosphere. Her own house is a degree warmer than Everet's rooms.

He notices the tremor that seizes her, and throws her fur cape about her shoulders. He takes her hand and leads her to a chair by the fire. He places her gently in it, and stands by the side of her. After a moment he says:

"I want to think for you, dear, if you will let me. Whatever I say, remember it is for your own good, because I—I love you. You have become so unhappy that you are not responsible just now for your actions. I want to put things before you plainly. You are here, in my rooms to-night—but you can return home and no one will be the wiser. You are a woman prominent in society. Your husband's name is famous throughout the country. No breath of calumny has ever touched you. If you remain with me, it will be known from here to San Francisco within forty-eight hours. Then, regrets will be useless. You will have lost everything forever but—my love; home, position, fortune, everything that is essential to the happiness of such a woman as you. You can return to-night, no one—"

"Every one knows," in a hard tone—"my servant witnessed all—every one knows."

Everet is silent a moment. Then he speaks slowly:

"Well, if that be true, at least you have nothing to reproach yourself for, yet. Though they know, you will have the knowledge that you are an—honorable woman if you return at once—"

She stops him with a gesture:

"What is that to me? The world will not know it. What I have done is irrevocable, I tell you. I have been in your rooms for fifteen minutes, and three people beside ourselves know it,—your servant, and mine, and my husband. It is possible that I might have done differently if I had been a little more deliberate,—I think not, but it is possible. However, I was not more deliberate—and there is nothing to be done. When a woman scorns conventionalities as I do, all is over."

She speaks proudly. She is in earnest.

Everet feels a sudden tenderness and compassion for this strange woman who speaks with such conviction of her scorn for conventionalities when her respect and reverence for them is what is about to ruin her and deprive her of all peace.

The mere thought that she has stepped aside never so little from the beaten path has paralyzed her capacity of reasoning, and she will wander about in the wood forever, having lost the power to find her way back.

He has done what he could. Now he stands staring at the fire. After a moment he feels a soft hand on his. Helen is looking at him with appealing eyes. She murmurs like a grieved little child:

"I have nothing but you now. If you do not fail me, I shall not miss the rest."

He stoops and clasps her in his arms.