And what became of Dodo? Did she completely change—in a twinkling, and changing by the divine dispensation of being a woman, forget that other turbulent self? Only once again did she return into the hazardous life of old—a last flash of the dramatic impulse—and the adventure came close to a final tragedy. Six months after that rainy March night when she had gone weakly into the rain on Garry's imperious arm, she set foot in New York once more.

Perhaps it was the tragic splendor of these Towers of Babel aflame against the night, after all the grim months of victorious struggle and abnegation; perhaps it was something deeper within her that drove her to slip from the sober cloak of matrimony and once again try the perilous paths of the Salamander.

At three o'clock the next afternoon, she left her hotel, after procuring a promise from her husband that he would not attempt to follow her. Below Jock Lindaberry's automobile was waiting, a footman at the door. She gave the familiar number of Miss Pim's on lower Madison and sank against the cushioned back. A mirror caught her reflection and she gazed with a queer tugging sensation of the incongruities of time. It was Dodo and it was not Dodo at all. The figure was still fragile, the alert poised eagerness was still in the glance and the arch mischief in the smile, but that was all. The old rebellion, the recklessness, the nervous unrest were gone. She looked incredulously upon a woman of the world, soberly attired in blues and blacks, correctly bonneted and veiled, a woman at peace, pensive and settled, with a note of authority. She gazed long with memory haunted eyes, half inclined to laughter and half verging on tears. Now that she had set recklessly out in search of the past, she began to experience a little doubt. Familiar corners, a glimpse of a restaurant, ways by which she had so often returned, brought her a strange disturbance. Which was real, Dodo Baxter or the present Mrs. Lindaberry?

At the door she dismissed the automobile, aware of sudden eyes in windows above and climbed the brownstone steps. The emotion of familiarity was so instantaneous that absent-mindedly she found herself seeking in her purse for a departed latch-key. Not Josephus but another darky answered her ring. On the hat-rack was a disordered heap of letters which other girls tremulously would come to sort. In the musty parlor with its Sunday solemnity a couple were whispering, sinking their voices in sudden consciousness at her arrival. She groped her way into the obscurity of the stairs, thinking with a little melancholy of the girl and the man below, playing the old, old game. On the second landing, from the room that once was Ida's, another girl in hasty kimono was saying,

"You answer—tell him I went out with another man—make out I'm furious—"

She caught herself at Dodo's rustling coming, eying her curiously and then as though reassured ended, "If he responds with a bid for dinner, grab it!"

The whispering plotters recalled a hundred fragments of the old life, as though one cry had started echoes from every corner and cranny. She went on a little saddened by the sound of old accents in new mouths. So even she had not been different from the rest. Other Dodos would come and go as she had passed, as everything changed and gave way to the same renewals. Then she opened the door of her room and saw Snyder standing—gazing eagerly at her.

She did not cross immediately, waiting by the door, lost in familiar details of patched walls and carpets, noting changes, the absence of confusion, the new note of bare simplicity.

"It doesn't seem quite the same—without the trunks. You've moved the couch, too. Funny, queer old room!" she said solemnly.

For the trunks that had served so often as impromptu bureaus, were gone, all save one,—those trunks that were always gaping open, in such fine disorder. Then there were no flowers, sporting their gay extravagance from rickety table or smoky mantel and the great gilt mirror which had leaned in the corner had departed, too. Yet all the familiar old seemed incredibly distant: even that rapid figure her imagination conjured up, perched on a trunk before the dressing-table studying a disastrous hole in a golden stocking. Was that Dodo and if so where had been the present self all that tempestuous time? Suddenly she noted the figure of the woman waiting on her tensely. She raised her veil, crossed quickly, holding out her arms.

"How is he—how is Mr. Lindaberry?" said Snyder at once.

"Garry? Magnificent—every inch a man."

"And you?"

"And I?" she asked a little puzzled.

"You're happy, aren't you?" said Snyder breathlessly.

"Oh—very happy—" She added with careful emphasis, "Very, very happy!"

She slipped off her black fur jacket and was about to toss it on a chair when she stopped, folded it carefully and handed it to Snyder.

"I forgot. Seems like old times for us to be here and you waiting on me." She took off her gloves, rolled them in a ball and tossed them to Snyder who placed them beside the coat on the bed. She added, seeking to give the conversation a casual note: "You got my letter of course. It's all right? I can have the room for the afternoon—alone?"

"Sure."

"I don't need to explain, do I?" she said rapidly. "It's—"

"Shut up, honey," said Snyder in the old rough manner, "it's all yours."

"No one will come?"

"No one ever comes."

"And who's in that room—Winona's?" she asked, walking to the door and listening.

"She's gone from noon—teaching Fifth Avenue to walk like Hester Street. Don't know her. She's new."

She passed the dressing-table, still crowded with her knickknacks and mementoes.

"Snyder," she said surprised, "you've kept all those crazy things. Heavens, what didn't I used to do!" She sat down before the table, shaking her head at the strange reflection. "Is it possible!" Then turning quickly she said, "And you, Snyder? Tell me all about yourself."

"Me? Sliding to fame on greased rails," said Snyder pleased. "Two hundred dollars a week now. Fact. Betty? She'll marry a dook yet!"

Dodo rose and taking from her purse a pendant, a diamond cross with a pearl in the center, held it out.

"It's for Betty—the first thing we bought. It's to bring her everything in the world."

"My lord—" said Snyder aghast. "Look here—that ain't right—it must have cost—"

"Hush, you funny old thing," said Dodo, silencing her. "Don't you know it never—never could cost enough!"

But before another word could be exchanged Miss Pim burst effusively into the room, ruffling like a motherly fowl.

"Dodo! Land's sake what a swell you've become!"

She bore down, open-armed, for a convulsive hug but Dodo extending a formal hand checked her.

"How do you do—very glad to see you, I'm sure."

"Two men, Dodo! Chauffeur and footman!" exclaimed Miss Pim, blundering a little over the defensive handshake, but unabashed. "My, I think I should expire on the spot if I ever went up Fifth Avenue behind a chauffeur and a footman. You lucky, lucky girl—who'd have thought you'd make such a match—you such a fly-away! Well, you always were my favorite."

Again the door slapped enthusiastically against the wall and Anita Morgan bounded in, all eyes and exclamations.

"Dodo! The lord be praised! Won't Clarice be surprised? Heard about her? She's domesticated too—oddles of money—old gent in splendid state of ill health! My, won't she be crazy to see you! How well you look! Clever puss! Always said you were the slyest of us all!"

"Heavens, Anita, do be careful," said Dodo, disengaging herself from the reckless embrace, "you're tearing me to pieces!"

Anita, jumping on the table, rocking enthusiastically, rushed on:

"How's Garry—the darling!"

"Mr. Lindaberry's health is quite satisfactory," said Dodo coldly.

"Come off!" said Anita with a laugh. "Guess I played round with Garry before you ever did. I say, Do, I'm just dying for a good old bust! Lord, it's been slow since you went. Gee, everything's broke up. Ida's a hundred years married—can't talk anything but the price of eggs and Brussel carpets. Thank the lord, Dodo, you and Garry are back to start something!"

Snyder by the mantelpiece was standing grimly prepared, watching for developments, while Miss Pim overawed was listening open-mouthed.

"My dear Anita," said Dodo quietly, "I'm afraid you are going to be disappointed again. We are going to be very quiet—much too quiet for you!"

Something in the cold decision of the tone opened Anita's eyes. She looked at Dodo with a new vision, with a flare-up of that fierce caste antagonism which Dodo once had felt so brutally, face to face with Mrs. Massingale.

"Dear me, as late as that!" she said, glancing at a wrist watch with extra nonchalance. "I must be rushing. So glad though to have had this glimpse." She shook hands airily. "You look quite shaken down, dear—quite matronly. I should never have thought it. Good-by. My love to poor old Garry."

She went out languidly, her head in the air. Miss Pim remained, shuffling from foot to foot, awed and embarrassed, wondering how to exit with dignity.

Dodo, quite at her ease and determined, came to her aid.

"My dear Miss Pim, there are certain things I must talk over with Snyder. If you will wait for me—down-stairs, I'll drop in as I go out—since I was always your favorite!"

"Down-stairs?" said Miss Pim, absolutely dazed by this easy air of patronage.

"Yes, that's it."

"Oh, down-stairs?" she repeated, open-mouthed.

She turned, gazed at Snyder, bumped against the table and sidled out of the room, staring at Dodo in consternation.

Snyder who had been silently enjoying the scene stepped forward, folding her arms abruptly.

"Right, honey—you've got your chance now. Cut away all the rest!"

"Yes, I must," Dodo answered, drawing a long breath, gazing out of the great bay-window to where the Metropolitan tower, like a great stalk among the weeds, was silhouetted against the changing white and yellow clouds. She had been abrupt, she had been cruel, yet she knew she had only done what she had to do. Snyder had understood, the readjustment was to be profound.

"Sure, you must," said Snyder standing before her stubbornly. "Oil and water don't mix. Don't you get sentimental—don't you flinch—cut it all out! Start new." She nodded twice resolutely, turned and going to the bed, flung on her coat and slapped on her hat in her familiar way. She came back struggling in the sleeves. "The room's yours."

Dodo, a little embarrassed, felt called upon for an explanation.

"You see I want it for a particular—" she began, only to be interrupted.

"Cut out explanations. It's yours. Well, honey, you've got a bully start, hang on to it—hang on hard. Good luck—good-by."

Suddenly Dodo comprehended. She caught the woman in indignant revolt.

"Not you, Snyder! Never you!"

"Oh, yes—me more than the rest," said Snyder heavily.

"Oh, no, no! Never!"

"What's the use of fooling ourselves?" said Snyder stubbornly. "You've found yourself—you've started a real life—Thank God. I've got no place in it." As Dodo emotionally stricken started to protest she shook her head, smiling a strange smile, taking up doggedly. "Let's be honest. See here—it is a queer world. We bumped against each other going through it—God knows how—you've been square to me and I've been square to you. Lord, that's enough. Precious lot more than most people can say." She stopped, locked her hands convulsively and avoided Dodo's eyes. "Well, your train has got to go one way—mine another. That's all. Here, give me your hand. We're not going to fool ourselves or each other. You know what's got to be. Good-by—good luck."

"Oh, Snyder, it's too cruel, life is too cruel!" said Dodo, her eyes blinded, her throat choking.

"You see," said Snyder, forcing a smile, "even you know what I say is right."

"No—no, I didn't mean it that way," said Dodo indignantly, but she stopped short, struck with the truth of it all.

"I know you didn't," said Snyder, fist to her eyes. "Hell, am I going to get sentimental?" Suddenly she took Dodo's hand, muttered something incoherent and raised it to her lips. Then she broke from the weeping woman and went hastily to the door.

"Remember," she said, "don't you flinch—don't you—"

Suddenly she stopped, caught her throat and went out with a last feeble wave of her hand. Dodo sank down, overcome with loneliness and the melancholy of other existences.

She had come indeed to set the seal on the past, to tie up old bundles, old memories, sweet and sad, regrets and failures; to arrange them into compact moral bundles, to be placed carefully on the shelves of oblivion, but she had not contemplated eliminating Snyder. Yet the pitiless verity had penetrated and convinced her. Nothing of the old life could travel with her into the new. When she had recovered herself she went rapidly to the narrow window and flung down the shade to blot out the impending side of brick. She threw open the trunk and the little bureau where Snyder had religiously guarded her things. There were a hundred reminders of the old life, scrawled notes from forgotten props, the card of Sassoon's with the scribbled entreaty to see him for a short time, typewritten business letters from Mr. Peavey, a confidential note from Harrigan Blood—a tintype she once had had taken with Nebbins at a Sunday picnic—a photograph of Blainey looking uncomfortably posed, scores of cards which had accompanied flowers, Christmas offerings, pawn-tickets, birthday presents, what not, and in a separate packet done round with red ribbon, all that Judge Massingale had written her, beginning with that first miserable apology.

"Dear Miss Baxter:
"I was out of my head ... I should have known my limitations ... I didn't ..."

She sat down, her lap filled, looking into the stormy past through this strange rent in the fabric of the actual. A knock sounded from the hall and she sprang up hastily, gazing in sudden fear at the round clock-face of the Metropolitan Tower. The successor to Josephus was at the door, hesitating at her appearance.

"Yes, it is for me," she said hastily, glancing at the card. "It's all right. Send him up."

She returned in a panic, closing the trunk, pushing in stubborn bureau drawers. Now that he had actually come, as she had written him, as she had not believed he would come, she felt cold and hot all at once with sudden irregular knockings of her heart within. What would be the end of it all? What power had he still over her? All at once she perceived the packet of letters on the bed where she had thrown them—his letters—and rushing over caught them up and flung them in the hastily opened trunk.

"Come—"

She turned instantly intent—rigid. But her ear had deceived her, there had been no knock. She caught her breath twice, dug her nails into the palms of her hands and walked steadily away. When a moment later there came a knock, she was able to say calmly:

"Yes, come."

The door opened with a certain solemnity and Judge Massingale came in. She acknowledged his coming with a half-forward gesture of her hand, her glance on the floor, afraid of the first recognition, saying rapidly:

"It was good of you to come, very good. Thank you."

He stood, without movement to lay aside his hat and stick, self-possessed and cynically amused.

"I have come, my dear lady," he said evenly. "Well, because—I was curious."

"I had to see you," she said in a low rapid voice, "I could not bear—I had to see you—I wanted you to understand."

"Understand? What a curious word. You'll be saying forgive next."

"Ah, yes, forgive me," she cried impulsively, looking at him for the first time. "Forgive me for all the harm I've done to you!"

"And I came to congratulate you." He laid his hat and cane mathematically on a table and came forward with the same controlled smile.

"Oh, let me explain," she said, revolting at his manner.

"Explain? There is nothing to explain, everything is quite clear—to me at least," he said, and against his intention a note of harshness came into his voice. "You played your game perfectly. You used me for just what you wanted: to bring another man to the point. Oh, don't apologize. It's done a great deal nowadays in the best of families. You have made a splendid marriage, Mrs. Lindaberry. I do congratulate you."

"You don't believe that," she said angrily.

"Pardon me, I do. I'm not reproaching you. I warned myself again and again. I said once if I ever was fool enough to believe you I would be lost. Well, I believed you. I blame only myself. You are a very clever woman, Mrs. Lindaberry."

She twisted her hands helplessly, staring out the window over worn roofs to storm-clouds piling against the sky, hurt and defenseless against his light irony.

"Yes, yes," she said tremulously. "You have a right—I deserve all that." She sat down weakly, her hands between her knees, staring out.

"Oh, please," he said, smiling at the dramatic assumption. "Don't let's take things too seriously. I was not so hard hit as all that. Honestly, now that it's all over I'm—well, rather relieved. It would have been rather a nasty mess. I like the ruts of life; I'm quite happy going on as I am. You see how frank I am—I won't play the injured hero. Now that I look back, critically, in my own sort of way, I assure you my only sentiment is one of admiration. Great heavens, what does it avail to have all the knowledge of the world against one little woman! Come," he added with a certain nervous intentness, which belied the simulated lightness of his tone, "be frank. You know you never meant to go."

She shook her head slowly, staring ahead of her as though painfully distinguishing that other volatile and breathless self.

"It seems an awful thing to say now," she said slowly. "I think I would have gone if I'd been sure of you."

"If!" he said scornfully.

"You never really wanted to go!" she said, rising and approaching him swiftly, speaking rapidly with quick breaths. "You only wanted the sensation of the forbidden—you, too! All you say now proves it! You were always thinking of society—of what your friends—and the newspapers would say—always afraid, always hesitating, always a gentleman!"

"True, but not at the last," he said doggedly, forgetting his pose.

"Yes, yes, even at the last. Just the same at the last," she said angrily. "No, no! I was to blame! I saw in you what you were not, what you could never be. I was wild—crazy; but I longed for something beautiful—a great romance. I thought you understood—you didn't! It was never anything but an infatuation with you—just that and nothing else—something pulling you down!"

"That is not true," he said roughly, stirred by her charge. "At the end it was I and not you who would have made the greater sacrifice. I was ready to throw over everything!"

"No, no!" she repeated blindly. "You weren't going of your own free will. There were times when you hated me more than you loved me. At the end you were going like a criminal!"

"What! When I had told my wife all—broken with her—put myself in her power—turned my back on everything—yes, and gladly!"

"I never believed it," she said standing in front of him, inciting him by word and look. "I don't believe it now. If you had cared as I wanted—"

"Cared! Great God," he broke in passionately, "I was ready to exile myself, to throw my reputation to the dogs—to ruin my whole life. Cared!"

"You cared!" she said in rapid scorn. "You loved! And now six months later you can come here calmly, brutally, cynically, and say, 'I came because I was curious.' You cared!"

A blind animal fury swept over him. He caught her in his arms, murder and abject yielding wrestling in his soul.

"Dodo!"

She had swept aside all the artifices of the man of the world. The man beneath the veneer, rage or passion led, held her in a clasp that left its wounds upon her tender arms. Yet she did not move or cry out. He looked at her inertly thus, immobile as a statue and suddenly as though perceiving a strange woman, he released her roughly, amazed at himself.

"Good God," he said, striking his forehead, "haven't you done me enough harm already!"

She burst out weeping.

He turned, stirred to a guilty responsibility, trying to bluster into the better reason.

"Why did you bring me here?"

She made no answer.

"Dodo," he said angrily, wondering still at her motive with growing alarm, "I warn you; all is over between us. You yourself have done it. You belong to another!"

She fell back in a chair, her sobs redoubling hysterically; a wild laugh suddenly breaking through.

"I'm sorry—I'm awfully sorry," he said, stirred from his anger and his righteousness.

"No, no," she said brokenly, "you've done nothing—nothing, but what I wished."

"What!" he said in a voice of thunder.

"I wanted you to forget yourself—to take me in your arms," she said almost incoherently.

He could not believe his ears. Astounded, he seized her by the wrist, saying angrily:

"You—you did this on purpose!"

"I did, and oh, it is the worst, the most awful thing I've done in all my life—I know it, I know it! But I had to do it, yes, I had to. Oh, forgive me, Your Honor. I had no right but I had to know."

"What do you mean?" he said, releasing her and staring at her to assure himself that she was in her right mind.

She rose, the tears at an end, facing him calmly, even with a new sense of power, which struck profoundly into his masculine vanity.

"I had to know that I was really free—that you had no more power over me—that I could go on with my life," she said simply.

It was too monstrous, he could not credit it.

"And you brought me here for that?" he said slowly.

"Yes."

"Good heavens," he cried, revolted and shocked, "you—you could do—such a thing, such an indefensible, outrageous thing as this. That is too much, I can not understand—"

"I did it," she said quietly, "because I want to be a good wife."

"Then it was not because you wished to get me back?" he cried, too amazed not to be indiscreet.

"Why, no—of course not!"

"It is incredible!" he said stupidly aghast at her candor.

"Then I wanted you to understand," she said swiftly. "Wait. You will understand," she added quickly, her hand on his arm as he started an angry gesture. "Yes, yes, you will, because I know you or would I have let you come here?" she said illogically. "You are too big—you understand everything—you will me."

There was a moment's silent struggle as their eyes met each other. Then without waiting his answer, confidently she said:

"You know, after all, it's very simple. You were right. You remember that first time here—you said I was to end like all the rest,—just an ordinary little house-frau. Wasn't I furious though! Well, you were right! That's just what I have come to be!"

The incredible side of it all, the boldness of the situation, yet the naturalness of the incomprehensible Dodo doing just this, caught him with the old fascination. He yielded.

"You, Dodo, are saying this," he said, interested despite himself, "you who adored precipices?"

"Did I?" She shook her head, with a little catch after breath, in the suddenness of her victory which his surrender had brought her. "I think all my daring was just ignorance. Now, when I look back I am frightened to death. You thought I was such a wild breathless creature—no! I never really was brave. You see, I imagined a world as every girl must. It wasn't real, nothing was real. It was all just groping after something—just waiting, longing. And that's why I was as I was with you. I was impatient, tired of waiting. And I imagined the answer. Often I try to understand why I did what I did. Then I used to be so thrilled by every reckless, lawless thing I did. It gave me the feeling of a cork bobbing over hungry waves. What a pitiful little creature that Dodo was! She thought she could conquer life. She didn't know. She thought she was different from the rest. She was only restless, a helpless little rebel, with every man's hand against her. And because she didn't want to be like all the rest—what a terrible disaster it came near being!" She stopped, lost in the obscurity of the past and then turning to him, gaining confidence by what she saw in his eyes, went on in soft pleading: "Don't judge me. The game wasn't square. It never is between a man and a girl. You would have had your man's world to go back to—and I? Oh, won't you understand why I did what I did? Can't you understand how hard it is for a girl, all by herself, to really know what she wants of life? Your Honor, can't you forgive?"

He had been profoundly moved by her words and by the deep tones of her voice, beyond any power of simulation. He knew he would grant her request and yet with a last personal feeling against the unreasonableness of asking it of him, he said:

"What difference can it make to you whether I forgive or not?"

"Oh, but it does—it does," she cried, joining her hands in a passionate entreaty.

"Dodo," he said solemnly, not daring to look at her, "I suppose you are my destiny. I shall always go on loving you. If you need this from me to be happy as I want you—you have it."

"Thanks," she said in a whisper.

He felt suddenly the finality of their words as though the shadowy hand of destiny had moved between them, parting them irrevocably.

"You have never been like any one else," he said solemnly. "I never thought I could forgive—well, I do understand. There is nothing more to be said. Write finis and close the book." He went to the rack and took up his hat and stick. "I suppose I shan't see you again or if I do it will be in the midst of a herd of human beings—to pretend correctly we never once dreamed an impossible dream. Good-by."

Her lips murmured inarticulately.

He took a step toward the irrevocable parting, and then stopped seeking anything to delay the inevitable.

"One question—just one. You could not have loved him—your husband—that night. And now?"

"I did then though I wasn't sure," she said as though this were the most natural question in the world. "Now? Yes, and yet it is nothing to the way I am going to love him, the way I must love him."

"How can you say such things?" he said in a final stupefaction.

The battle she had fought, the incredible triumph she had won, had left her exalted, lifted out of the personal self. She spoke now, as though unaware of his presence, as though trying to comprehend things beyond her ken.

"What is a woman's life? Do you know? Just an exchange of illusions. I have put aside all the queer fantastic dreams of a girl—I haven't yet quite put on the new—not quite. I suppose for just this one moment—this one moment of absolute truth, I can see myself as I really am, just for a moment—perhaps I shall never want to look at myself so steadily again. To-day I can look ahead and know everything that is coming. I know that I shall make myself just what he, my husband, wishes me to be. I shall really become what he now thinks I am. I shall have children—many children I hope. My home, my husband, my children—there will never be room for any other thought in my life. Mine—all that is mine, I shall cling to and keep!"

She heard the door close, as the man before the sanctity of the revelation, had gone in reverence. Then suddenly a horror of the past, of the room, of the Dodo that had been, seized her. She wished now only to finish, to escape and never to return. She ran to the trunk, seized the bundle of letters and keepsakes and flung them in the fireplace. Then seizing a box, she struck several matches and applied them feverishly.

All at once the door opened and the voice of her husband cried gaily:

"Caught!"

She gave a scream, reeling against the mantelpiece. He sprang hurriedly to her side, gathering her into his arms, apologizing for the fright he had given her while she lay trembling and shivering, quite hysterical.

The horror of what might have been, the last gaping pit of fate to which she had subjected herself, left her sick unto weakness. He knew nothing. He suspected nothing, and yet he must have passed Massingale on the stairs themselves.

"Good heavens, what a fool I am! I didn't mean to scare you. I'm a brute—you poor child!" he cried.

"When did you come?" she said aghast—holding herself from him and gazing in his face fearfully.

"Why, just now."

"You promised—"

"I know, but I couldn't keep away," he said, smiling penitently. "Wanted to surprise the Missis! Steady."

She reeled, catching his arm, fighting down a wild impulse to shriek out against what might have been, dangerously inclined toward a fatal confession. Then she saw a dark smirch across his sleeve and brushing it away, asked breathlessly:

"Where did you get that?"

"Coming up. Infernally black stairs—couple of fellows trod all over me. Bless your heart, Dodo, I say I didn't know you frightened as easily as that. What a brute I am. Come here!"

He sat down, holding out his arms.

"You mustn't frighten me, Garry—you must be careful just now," she said weakly, sinking against his shoulder.

He surveyed the room curiously, running his hand over her hair. "Odd old room. Seems like old times, doesn't it?"

"I hate it," she said passionately.

"It was pretty rough going," he said sobered immediately. "A pretty tight squeeze. But you pulled me out of it,—you curious, fragile little child. How did you ever dare?"

"Not such a child as you think," she said rebelliously.

"The idea," he said, laughing gloriously. Then he became serious again. "Dodo, that's what's marvelous about you women. You can go up against the ugliness of life and never—not for an instant—even realize what you touch. Bless your innocence!"

She raised herself on his lap, her hands on his shoulders, looking deep into his unseeing eyes, realizing that he would never comprehend her otherwise. All at once she felt a fierce resolve to defend that illusion.

"Garry," she said tensely, "that's what you want me to be, isn't it—just a child!"

"Dodo could never be anything else!" he said joyfully, oblivious of the recording hand of fate, writing on the woman's heart.

"Then that's what I shall always be," she said softly. She relaxed, cuddling her head against his shoulder, repeating in a tired whisper—"Just a child!"

The rest can be written in a sentence.

She became a conventional member of society,—rather extreme in her conservatism.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Archaic, alternate, and mis-spellings have been retained with the exception of those listed below.

page 81 "species" changed to "specie" (paid her, whenever possible in specie.)

page 136 "your" changed to "you" (What were you planning)