Lorraine took Pendleton's advice. He did not take counsel with anyone—not even with Cameron, with whom he dined at the Club that evening, and afterward played billiards until bedtime. The thought of what he had said to him yesterday, as to his intended course of conduct, may have deterred him, as well as a hesitation to admit the instability of his own mind. Yesterday he was fixed on divorce—to-day he was not so sure. The real reason for his uncertainty was his wife's beauty. Yesterday he had not noticed it—had not time to notice it, being occupied with the instant.

But this Sunday affair was quite different. He had been alone with her—and he had seen again the adorably beautiful woman—whom once he had possessed, but possessed no longer; who was colder to him now than a graven image.

The trim, slender figure in its close cut walking-skirt; the narrow, high-arched feet that she put down so well; the small head, with its crown of auburn hair; the cold, proud, high-bred face that once had been so tender for him, he now saw in all their loveliness—recollected in all their perfectness. And they weighed heavily in the scale—almost balancing her sin. Nay, there were moments when they did balance it, and a trifle more—until he grew hesitating again and doubtful.... And the hesitancy gradually grew less, and the doubt gradually decreased.

Then one afternoon in the latter part of the week, as he was coming from his office, the day's work done, he saw her ahead of him on the opposite side of the Avenue. And he became so absorbed in watching her that he was three blocks beyond his Club before he realized it.

Guiltily he turned and retraced his steps; and alone, in a quiet corner of the lounge with a high-ball and his face to the wall, he fought it out with himself.

And having fought it out, he did a most unusual thing for him—he acted straightway upon his decision, and did not wait for it to cool and himself to doubt and hesitate and change.

He pushed the bell.

"Call a taxi!" said he to the boy.

When it came, he gave Mrs. Mourraille's number. There was a click, as the flag went up, and they whirred away.

"You need not wait," said he, handing the driver a bill as the car drew up before the house.

The man touched his cap and shot off.

Lorraine crossed the sidewalk, went up the steps and rang the bell.

The aged butler answered. He had been in the Mourraille family for a generation, but even his automaton calm was not proof against such a surprise, and he failed to repress wholly the amazement from his face and manner when he beheld who stood in the doorway.

"I want to see Mrs. Lorraine a moment, Tompkins," said Lorraine, and went in with the utmost nonchalance.

There were no instructions against admitting Lorraine, so Tompkins could do nothing but bow him into the living-room. Then he went slowly up to the library and gave the card to Mrs. Lorraine.

She took it from the tray, wondering as she did so who was calling on her, and read the name—and read it again. Then she frowned slightly and remained silent.

The butler stood at attention and waited—waited so long, indeed, that Mrs. Mourraille glanced up from her evening paper, having observed the whole thing, and inquired casually:

"Who is it, Stephanie?"

Her daughter passed the bit of pasteboard across—then nodded to Tompkins that she would be down.

Mrs. Mourraille's heart gave a great bound—if, in so placid a woman, anything ever could bound—when she read the name. The thing for which she had hoped—for which she had prayed—for two years was that Stephanie would make it up with her husband, and go back to him. It was the better way—the way that made everything as nearly right as was humanly possible—the easier way for everyone. If he overlooked her fault, who else had any cause to cavil? She had been much too wise, however, to urge it unasked. It must come voluntarily from Stephanie—then she could add her counsel and encouragement. But better even than Stephanie was Lorraine himself—and what else could his unexpected coming mean than an overture for a reconciliation!

"You will receive him?" she asked quietly.

Stephanie nodded.

"I suppose," she said, "it is some arrangement about the divorce—but I can't understand why he should come in person to make it."

"Perhaps it is a first step in an attempt to effect a—readjustment of matters," her mother suggested.

Stephanie had risen—now she paused, and a smile flitted across her face.

"As you hope it is—and hope also that it will be successful, n'est ce pas?" she said, bending down and kissing her.

"What I hope, dear, is that you will do the best for yourself," Mrs. Mourraille answered—"and you can alone decide that best, and hope to remain satisfied with the decision. Go and see what Harry wants; it was a great deal for him to come here, and you should not keep him waiting."

"Particularly as he may change his mind if I keep him waiting long!" she laughed; and with a little caressing touch to her mother's cheek, she went down to the living-room.

Lorraine was standing with his back to the fireplace, nervously drawing his gloves back and forth through his fingers. He came forward and offered her his hand—and after just a second's hesitation, she touched it momentarily.

It was as though she said:

"As the hostess, I cannot do less, but I don't in the least fancy the doing."

"Will you sit down, Mr. Lorraine?" she said perfunctorily, letting herself sink into a chair with the lithe grace he remembered so well.

She was perfectly at ease—with the air of one who entertains a casual visitor.

She looked at him, politely interrogatively, and waited for him to begin. It was his move, and she did not intend to help him in the least.

Lorraine was not so tranquil—his agitation showed in his slightly flushed face and in his manner. He took out his handkerchief and passed it across his lips. When he did speak he knew it was with an effort and unnaturally.

"Stephanie," he said, "I want to apologize for what I did at the Club-house, and what I said yesterday—will you let me?"

"Certainly," she replied impersonally. "An apology is one thing that you can tender and one thing that I can accept."

"It does not right the injury——" he began.

"No, it does not right it," she concurred.

"Any more than your apology will right the injury you have done me," he added.

"And mine was the greater injury," she observed. "I know it. There is no apology I can offer that will be effective—so, why try?"

"Don't try!" he exclaimed. "Just let us forget it, and take a fresh start." He leaned forward and took her hand—and she, in sheer amazement, suffered him to retain it. "I am willing to forgive, Stephanie, if you are willing to come back to me. Will you do it, dear?"

For a moment she had the impulse to ask how long this notion had actuated him, and how long he thought that it would last. Then the keen injustice of the taunt came home to her, and with it a sharp sense of just what such an offer meant from him. Aside from everything—of blindness when he should have seen, of supineness when he should have acted, of vacillation when he should have known his own mind, of all the other deficiencies of which he was guilty—there yet remained the ever present, ever damning fact that she was a guilty wife; and that he was willing to overlook the past, and to restore her to the place she once had, made all his shortcomings as nothing in comparison. It mattered not how soon he might again change his mind—that was not the present question. He had offered. He was waiting for her answer. She had but to accept—and the thing was done beyond the fear of change.

"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" she heard him say again—she did not know how often he had said it.

She released her hand and sat staring down at the rug at her feet. It was a Senna prayer rug, beautiful in coloring and soft as an autumn twilight in the tones, but she was looking back into the past—its lost opportunities and forsaken shrines....

Presently her glance shifted to Lorraine—and lingered, speculatively, appraisingly, as though casting up the balances. It swept him slowly from head to foot, pausing long upon his face—so long, indeed, that he shifted uneasily and smiled in self defence.

"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" he repeated.

She slowly shook her head.

"I cannot," she answered.

"Why can't you, dear?" he asked.

"Because I do not love you!"

"What has that to do with the question?" he replied. "Neither do I know that I love you—we must try——"

"I know," she interrupted; "you don't love me—and love is the one thing that could heal the wounds the past two years have made—for us both."

"Do you love that scoundrel Amherst?" he asked.

"I do not," was the calm answer—"and you have termed him rightly—he is a scoundrel."

"Do you love any other man?"

"I do not!" looking him straight in the face.

"Then let us try it, Stephanie," he said.

But she shook her head again.

"It is not just to you——"

"Let me be the judge of that," he cut in.

"Neither is it just to me," she ended. "You will take me back for the sake of appearances. You think to save me and yourself some temporary unpleasantness by obviating a divorce—by preventing scare headlines in the papers. You don't see that you would be making untold unpleasantness for us both through the remainder of our lives. When we are apart and need only the Court's severing decree, why should we assume a life of wretchedness for both? I bear the heavier burden now. I am content to bear it for a little while—until the world has forgotten—rather than to purchase that forgetfulness by a reconciliation which would be only in name—and scarcely in name, indeed."

"Why should it be only in name?" he asked, leaning toward her. "It won't be with me, dear."

"You are very good to say so," she replied—"but you'll think differently in a month—in a week possibly. Amherst will be ever between us—you will always see him; and as time passes you will see him only the more. Nothing we can do will remove him—he will be persistently present—you can't see me without thinking of him—and of what I did with him. And that can have only one result—renewed unhappiness for us both, and eventually the final break. Therefore why not let the break be now—when it is anticipated by every one and is so much easier for us both?"

She might have added—what was in her mind—that with a man of strong and resolute purpose the experiment would not be so hazardous of success; but with one of his character the issue was not even doubtful—it would be decided before it was begun.

A spasm of anger had crossed his face at her reference to Amherst and herself, and for a moment she had hoped that he would recall his offer—but as she talked it passed, and when he spoke it was with quiet resolution.

"Wouldn't we better eliminate Amherst from the question?" he asked. "I understand that episode has ended!"

"It has, indeed!" she answered,—"as between Amherst and me—but it can never end as between you and me."

"As between you and me it is as we make it," he returned. "I engage that I shall never, by word or act, refer to Amherst, nor to what you have done. It will be as though it had never been. Is not that satisfactory?"

"You can't engage to control your thoughts," she replied; "and thoughts tincture acts, however much we may strive to avoid it. It's generous, more generous than I can say, for you to offer to take me back—but it cannot be, Harry. We may as well face the matter as it is—there need be no concealment between us surely. I do not love you—I never shall love you. You do not love me—you never can love me. It is much wiser to end things now than to drag them along a little while and end them."

"Why do you say I do not love you?" he asked.

"Because you admitted it yourself a moment since, and because, aside from that, I know it."

He made a denying gesture.

"I loved you when we were married," he broke out.

"We both loved then—or thought we did—but we both have learned much, since that day at St. Luke's." She sat up and bent nearer to him. "And one of the things we have learned is that we are better apart—and I have proven it—by running away with another man. And you have proven it—by not following instantly and taking me from him—or killing him."

"What have I proven by my present attitude?" he demanded.

"Your magnanimity—but not your love. And as I said, love alone would justify a reconciliation now, or give the slightest warrant for the future."

For a time he made no answer, looking at her steadily with thoughtful eyes. At last he spoke.

"Am I to understand then that you refuse my offer?" he asked.

"I refuse!" she answered. "For both our sakes—yours as well as mine—I refuse your offer."

There was a finality in her manner that left him no present ground for hope. It was useless to argue further at this time, and he knew it. He arose to go. She arose also.

Then a sudden, irresistible impulse came over him. Scarce knowing what he did, nor the reason why he did it, he seized her in his arms and crushed her to him.

She fought him in silence; with all her strength she strove to break from his encircling arms—that held her only the tighter, while his face drew slowly nearer hers. Her breath came in fierce gasps, as closer and closer he pressed her—his lips ever nearer and nearer to her own.

"Let me go!" she panted. "Let me go!"

But he only smiled. The perfume from her hair, the warmth of her body, the intoxication from her person were working their due. He was only a man—and she was only a woman.

He kissed her on the lips fiercely—once—twice—a score of times—straining her to him with an intensity that left her helpless.

"You coward!—you coward!—you coward!" she kept repeating.

And every time he kissed her more fiercely than the last.

Then, suddenly as he had seized her, he loosed her and stepped back—so suddenly, indeed, she swayed and almost fell.

"You beast! you miserable beast!" she breathed, wiping away his kisses.

He laughed, a low mocking laugh.

"Did you call Amherst a beast?" he asked.

"You miserable beast!" she repeated.

"Who has a better right?" he queried.

"You miserable beast," she said again.

"Who has a better right to kiss you than your husband? Your lover?" he sneered.

"Go!" she cried, pointing to the door. "Go! and never speak to me again."

"Why all these melodramatics?" he inquired. "What have I done that is wrong—how have I offended?"

"I have asked you to leave the house," she answered. "If you go quietly at once well and good. If you do not"—laying her hand on the button in the wall behind her—"I shall ring for Tompkins and bid him summon the police."

"Still melodramatic!" he laughed.

She pressed the button.

"You shall decide whether the butler shows you out or summons an officer," she replied.

Tompkins appeared in the doorway and waited.

She looked calmly at Lorraine, and Lorraine looked at her—then he held out his hand.

"Good-bye!" he said.

"Good-bye!" she answered, and turned away.

He took a step toward her, and dropped his voice so that Tompkins could not hear.

"And I'm not so sure now that I want a divorce," he said—"and you can't get one."

Her only reply was the slightest shrug of the shoulders and an expressive motion of her hands—she did not even take the trouble to turn her head.

And after a second's hesitation, Lorraine faced about and strode away.