ELDRIDGE went on making little marks on the edge of the paper. He no longer stared at the blotter; he was seeing things. Gordon Barstow’s recital had shown things to him in perspective and his own trouble seemed moved far away from him to a kind of clear place. He sat and looked at it—making little marks on the paper. Rosalind was not to blame. A woman like Rosalind had the right—she could do what she wanted! What had he ever done to win her—to keep her? Not even money. He had kept it for himself—and built up a comfortable fortune.... He had the fortune—yes. And he had lost Rosalind.... He suddenly saw himself in the clear light—he was not lovable like old Barstow. The vision grew before him—all his saving closeness, his dulness—a lifeless prig!... And then the picture of Rosalind, the vision of her in her alcove—“the way people sit when they are alone—I don’t know as you ever noticed—?” old Barstow had said.

Well, then—what was to be done? His shoulders squared a little. No man was going to win Rosalind—without a fight! The man who would win her should reckon with him.... He had never known Rosalind. Perhaps Rosalind had never known him.... What had he given her—to know him by? She had had the right to work for him, to sweep his floors and make his bed and take care of the children... She should have money now. She should become a partner—in all his plans—and suddenly El-dridge Walcott saw that money would not win her—money would not buy the gracious presence in the alcove; she did not need money.... He must give his soul—to win her—Then he took out his soul and looked at it—the shrunken, dry, rattling thing—and flicked it from him with a finger-nail.

The office boy put his head in cautiously.

“What do you want?” said Eldridge harshly.

“It’s Mr. Dutton,” said the boy.

“Well, show him in.”

And while Mr. Dutton talked of real estate, Eldridge’s soul peeped out at the man. He wanted to stop the flow of facts and figures and put a straight question to him. “How do you get on with your wife, Mr. Dutton?” he wanted to say to him. He could see the man’s startled face checked in its flow of fact.... It would not do; of course it would not do to ask him how he got on with his wife. Probably he got on with her as Eldridge Walcott had done—sewing, sweeping, eating, saving—“So I have decided,” the man was saying, “to take the entire block—if the title is good.”

Eldridge Walcott bowed him out and turned back from the door. But he did not sit down. He would go to Merwin’s. Perhaps she was there—she had said she might come in to town.... But, with his hand on the door, he paused——Suppose he found her—What then?—and the man with her? What then?—Suppose he found her! There was nothing he could do—not yet! He would win her back.... But the man he had to reckon with was not the man sitting with her now, perhaps, in the alcove. The man he had to reckon with was Eldridge Walcott—the little, shrunken, undersized Eldridge Walcott.

He saw it—standing with his hand on the door, looking down—and he looked at it a long minute.

Then he opened the door.

The office boy wheeled about from the window-shade that was stuck halfway up.

“I am ready to see anybody that comes, Burton,” he said.

“All right,” said the boy. “This old thing gets stuck every other day!” He jerked at it.

Eldridge came across and looked at the cord and straightened it and went back to his room. The little incident strengthened him subtly. He had never yet failed in anything he undertook, big or little—he had always succeeded in what he undertook—And suddenly he saw that Eldridge Walcott had never in his life undertaken anything that was not small.... He had done small, safe things. He had straightened window-shades all his life—and he had never failed!

He had always had a half-veiled contempt for men who ran risks. Find a safe thing and hold on to it had been his policy. It had brought him through smugly. He had never made a mistake.... The nearest he had ever come to a risk was before he asked Rosalind to marry him. There had been something about her that he could not fathom, something that drew him—and made him afraid—a kind of sweet mystery... that would not let him be safe. Then it had seemed so safe afterward; they had lived together quietly without a break. The young Rosalind who had taught him to be afraid he had forgotten—and now young Rosalind had come back... she had come back to him and with deeper mystery.... This was the real Rosalind, the other was only a shadowy promise.... The young Rosalind would try him for his soul—and he had—no soul!

Who was that other man in the alcove with her—the man who had won her? Who was it she had found to understand the mystery—to look up to her and worship her—as he had worshipped Rosalind, the girl; as he had worshipped Rosalind—and let her go!

And he had been thinking about divorce! Thinking of the grounds for it and how he should get grounds of divorce—as Gordon Barstow had done. He glanced at the two letters on his desk and at the little, jotted notes of the Barstow case and a smile flitted to them—grounds for divorce from Rosalind! He saw her, in her freedom, moving from him.... His teeth set a little. She should never leave him! She should stay with him. She should stay because he wanted her—and because she wanted him!

And through the rest of the day, as clients came and went, he saw something new. He saw cases differently. Men were accustomed to come to him because he was a “safe” man.... Well, he was not quite safe to-day—But he knew underneath, as he worked, that his advice had never been so worth while.