Maddison was not surprised at a visit from Squire early the next morning; and if not armed he was at any rate forewarned.

He offered him a chair and a cigarette, both of which were curtly refused.

“As you will,” Maddison said, seemingly careless and supercilious, but in reality closely watching his opponent’s face. “I hope you will not mind my both sitting and smoking; both are conducive to comfort, and what’s life without comfort?”

“It will be better,” Squire said, shuffling awkwardly, “to talk simply and without any remarks which are likely to be offensive. You know why I’ve come?”

“Unless you tell me I shall never know. This visit seems as useless as it is unpleasant. I can’t think what you have to say which wouldn’t be better unsaid.”

“No, I suppose you cannot. I suppose we look at almost everything from a different standpoint. I’ve come to say——”

“You are presuming, Mr. Squire, that I am willing to listen to you.”

“Naturally. You allowed your servant to show me in.”

“I beg your pardon, you’re quite right. But I do wish you’d sit down; it makes me feel so awkward to see you standing up.”

“I saw Marian last night,” Squire said, taking no notice of Maddison’s remark; “I suppose she told you.”

“Yes. The meeting annoyed her very much. It was natural for you to assume that I let you in because I was willing to listen to you. As a matter of fact, it was because I must absolutely refuse to do so. But, unless you refuse to hear me, I’ve just this much to tell you. The lady you mentioned is living under my care, and I will protect her against annoyance. If you have any communication to make I will send you my solicitor’s name and address. Now—you’d better go.”

“Even if she were not my wife, I’ve a right to do all I can to rescue her from a life of sin.”

“Please don’t platitudinize to me.”

Squire reddened with anger and clenched his fists: recourse to brute force suggests itself instinctively to the fighter who is mentally weaker than his opponent.

“What right have you to say that?” he asked vehemently, “what right? I believe what I say and do my best to act up to my beliefs.”

“Then live in charity, with all men, even with a sinner and a publican like me, and judge not that ye be not judged. I don’t shove my beliefs on you. You live in such an unpractical world that you do not realize the stupidity of forcing yourself upon me. I’ve really no more to say. The law gives you your remedy, but it won’t assist you to trespass here or to force yourself upon your wife. Good morning.”

Squire realized that he was helpless against Maddison; denunciation would achieve no good end; it would be equally useless to base an appeal upon grounds of morality. But for Marian’s sake he was ready to humble himself in a last endeavor.

“As man to man——”

“Oh, my dear sir!” Maddison exclaimed, “don’t talk that way. If you tried to knock me down I could understand, if not respect, you. In these affairs men don’t argue, they act, according to the law of nature or preferably of man. Don’t let us indulge in a vulgar, unprofitable brawl. Good morning.”

“Then I’ll go to her. Give me her address.”

“Certainly not. She does not wish you to know it.”

“Then I’ll watch.”

“As you please. But remember, you’ve no right to persecute her; though many husbands think otherwise—that is not one of the privileges of matrimony.”

Squire checked an angry retort and then abruptly went out.

Maddison spoke truly when he said that to him comfort was one of the saving graces of life, indeed to him it was almost the only one. This entry of Squire upon the scene and this turning a comedy into a domestic drama vexed and annoyed him. It had not occurred to him that any man would act so unconventionally as Squire had done. Marian had told him that her husband would not divorce her, looking as he did upon marriage as a sacramental bond which no man had a right to break; so Maddison had thought that there might be an appeal to Marian if Squire discovered her whereabouts, an angry scene very likely and then peace. But it had not entered into his calculations that Squire would be so persistent; this type of man was new and unknown to him, of a kind that he did not understand how best to tackle. To discuss the situation with Marian would be distasteful; there remained only Mortimer to whom he could speak frankly, relying upon the good common sense of any advice he might obtain from him.

At this hour of the morning Mortimer should be at his office, and there Maddison rang him up.

“Is Mr. Mortimer in?”

“Which one?” was the brusque reply.

“Mr. Frederick.”

“Don’t know. Who is it?”

“Tell him Mr. Maddison wants to speak to him for a minute.”

“Hold the line.”

Mortimer gladly accepted Maddison’s invitation to lunch.

“But why on earth come down to this dreary part of town?” he asked. “Don’t deprive me of a lovely excuse for leaving here early and coming back late—if at all. Meet me outside the Palace, and I’ll take you to a tidy little French restaurant I’ve just discovered and haven’t yet found out. One o’clock—all right!”

Both were punctual, and Mortimer guided his friend through several small and unsavory streets to a narrow court at the far end of which was situated the humble restaurant bearing the high-sounding name La Palais.

“It’s not much to look at,” he said, as they went in through the swing door, “like an ugly woman with a pretty wit. Bon jour, Madame.”

Madame, a stout, jolly-looking woman, greeted Mortimer cordially, and nodded genially to his companion.

“Now, Madame, I’ve brought a friend with me and I’ve told him—well, I’ve told him the truth about you. So don’t shatter my entirely undeserved reputation for veracity. We’ll have this snug corner and leave the menu to you. You know the kind of thing I like.”

The room was long and low; clean, neat, with little attempt at decoration; the walls covered with plain, dark gray paper, the electric light pendants severely simple; flowering shrubs stood upon the pay desk near the entrance, and similar plants or cut flowers upon the tables.

“I can’t make out how this place pays,” said Mortimer, “there are never more than a handful of people here. I suppose it will suddenly become popular and then rapidly deteriorate. That’s the history of all these places. Meanwhile let us rejoice. We’ll have some Chianti, but will not drink it neat as do the barbarians, but judiciously tempered with Polly.”

Lunch finished, coffee and cigars produced, Mortimer announced that he was ready to talk seriously.

“What’s up?” he asked. “You shall have all the advice I can give and I shan’t be in the least hurt if you don’t follow any of it. Your mind’s sure to be made up already and you simply ask for advice in the hope that my view will be your view.”

“No, I don’t, Fred. Not such an ass. I’m in a bad corner and I’m damned if I know how to get out of it. I don’t know whether you know that Mrs. Squire has a husband?”

“I didn’t. I imagined the prefix to be entirely ceremonial.”

“He’s a parson.”

“The devil!”

“Worse, a saint. He doesn’t believe in divorce and is obstinately determined to persecute Marian. He says he won’t leave a stone unturned to save her. Please laugh. There’s a comic side to it, I know, but it’s turned away from me.”

“I know the type. I’ve met one or two of them,” said Mortimer, reflectively watching the smoke of his cigar; “I bet he’ll give you a deuced lot of trouble. Unreasonable people are most difficult to deal with, they never know how unreasonable they are. And a man who doesn’t play according to the rules—But, tell me all about it.”

Maddison told him all that he knew of Squire and of Marian’s and his own meetings with him.

“Beastly awkward!” was Mortimer’s comment.

“You can pretty well guess I’m stumped,” said Maddison. “I don’t know what’s best to do.”

“Excuse my asking, I must know all the facts of the case: you don’t want to break off with Mrs. Squire?”

“No!”

“All right! Don’t blaze up, we’re talking politics, not poetry. It’s not one of those cases in which you can sit still and let fate play your cards. The man will stick at nothing. Eventually he must meet her again, even if she doesn’t come to your place. He’ll haunt you. Perhaps catch you together in some public place and kick up—the saints’ own delight.”

“Yes, yes, I can see all that. I know what I’ve got to face—but I don’t want to face it.”

“I was mentally marking time. If I knew what to suggest I would have told you at once. Let’s be practical; there are three parties to the business: you—she—he. The question is how to avoid you and she, or, at any rate, you, being brought into contact with him. Could you both go away for a while?”

“Easily.”

“In a time you and she would be safe. What would he do? Hunt after you—find that you had left town——”

“That’s all very well, but we can’t stay away forever.”

“Forever!” murmured Mortimer, gazing sadly up at the ceiling. “Easy! Easy! Leaving out of the question the possibility of your tiring of her—he can’t spend the rest of his life chasing after you. Even if he could, he wouldn’t. You don’t know the man as well as I do, although I’ve never met him. It’s love—fleshly love—as well as duty that’s urging him on now. Duty will regain the upper hand, and he’ll argue that he has no right to leave undone the work that is merely duty, in order to pursue duty plus personal interest. He’s actively engaged in trying to save one particularly attractive soul now; he’ll soon swerve round and work again on the multitude. As far as his wife is concerned, he’ll fall back upon the masterly inactivity of prayer. I may be quite wrong, but unless you can hit upon a better plan, I don’t see that you can do better than—hook it. I have spoken.”

“I’ve still got the cottage down at Rottingdean; we could run down for a month.”

“Where the stormy winds do blow! Poor, dear lady.”

“I can’t work in a racket.”

“Well, it’s as easy to leave as to go there. Three o’clock! by Jove, I must get back. I’ve some letters to sign, and I’m going down to West’s for dinner. She tells me you’re going to paint her portrait.”

“She tells the truth—although she draws upon her imagination. West suggested my doing so, but I haven’t agreed yet.”

“Have you met Miss Lane?”

“Once, at dinner.”

“She’s worth studying. Worth painting too.”

“Oh!”

“Not I. I don’t even like her. A man never falls in love with a woman he studies, but with the woman who studies him. I must be off. See you again soon. Let me hear from you if you run away.”

As he walked homeward, Maddison pondered over the problem, oblivious of people and places. Squire’s intrusion into his life had brought home to him that Marian and the joy of life were one for him. He had entered into this intrigue to a certain extent deliberately, but had not contemplated the possibility of Marian’s attraction for him becoming anything stronger than a mere physical appeal to his sensuous nature. He had always believed that art was the only impulse in his life, that in all else he was governed by his reason. He did not drink too much, because reason and experience told him that after a certain point wine became a tasteless stimulant. He did not permit any woman entirely to captivate him. Experience and reason—so he thought—taught him that women were like wine.

But Marian had won a place in his life that no other woman had ever approached. For a moment, the night before, Squire’s attack had made him think that a temporary separation between himself and Marian might be necessary, and the mere notion had struck him with a chill, sick fear. Everything in his life belonged to her. All that he attempted or accomplished in his daily round or in his work centered on her; she was his motive power. Another matter had recently come home to him; he had never been extravagant, but had always lived fairly up to his means. His support of Marian had made heavy demand, not only upon his income but upon the small amount he had saved, and he was now face to face with the necessity of adding largely to his earnings.

He had never condescended to force his art, never painted for money alone. Inspiration, not necessity, had been the mother of his invention. Even in the painting of portraits he had held himself entirely free to refuse any commission that was not entirely to his taste. Now, however, he was no longer free; he must paint for money or curtail his expenditure. To do the latter would mean depriving Marian of certain pleasures and luxuries, the doing of which would be abhorrent to him. Not for an instant did it occur to him to question Marian’s loyalty; could he offer her only a cottage and country fare that would suffice her. When she first came to him, he believed that his chief claim upon her was that he offered her freedom. But he now felt assured that as his love for her had grown deeper and deeper so had hers for him.

Therefore for more reasons than one, the idea of a country retreat appealed to him strongly. While there he would be altogether with Marian; he could at the same time work strenuously, he could live inexpensively.

When he reached the flat he learned that Marian had gone out, but would be home to tea, and he decided to wait for her return.

Smoking cigarette after cigarette, he paced up and down, from room to room. Every detail seemed to bear the impress of her personality. He stopped more than once before the pastel on the easel by the drawing room window. He pulled back the curtain as far as it would go so as to let in the full strength of the waning light. Striking as was the likeness, he felt that he had failed to catch the whole charm of her face; the beauty was there, but not the pleading fascination. He tried to imagine how much he would suffer if she were to die. Drops of perspiration broke out upon his forehead as he realized overwhelmingly that perhaps he might have overestimated her love for him, and that perhaps she would one day again take her freedom. The thought of it was agony. He stood before the picture wrought into a tumult of emotion. She came in, stood beside him unheard, until she spoke:

“What a loyal lover! When he can’t worship the original——”

“I do worship you,” he exclaimed, turning fiercely, seizing her hands and crushing them between his own. “I do, that’s the only word for it, that’s the very truth. Look at me—straight—you’re everything to me; what am I to you?”

“You’re hurting my hand——”

“I hurting you!” he said, loosening his hold, “and I am ready to do anything to save you one moment’s pain. You haven’t answered me; am I everything to you?”

“Do you need to ask?” she answered, looking boldly back at him, so that as he gazed into her eyes, he seemed to see deep into her soul. “I never asked you. You show me how much you love me, and I’ve tried to show you. I suppose”—she faltered and turned away—“I suppose I’ve failed.”

“You’re right, Marian,” he said, catching her in his arms, turning her face to him, and kissing her passionately again and again; “but I do like to hear you say it. Would you like it if I never told you how much I love you?”

“No, no, dear, of course I shouldn’t. Somehow it’s not my way to say it; I’ll try to sometimes, but don’t make me do so now. Let me say it when it comes to my lips.”

“All right, dearie, you’re right.”

“Now, come along. We’ll have tea. I felt sure you were coming to-day, so I ran out to get some of those cakes you liked so much.”

It was a fancy of his that she should always make the tea herself. The room was growing dark. She looked very graceful, tenderly delicate, as she knelt on the hearth-rug, the firelight playing hide-and-seek in her hair and the folds of her dress. Her eyes looked dreamy as she stared into the blaze, waiting for the kettle to boil up, which she had set on the fire, too impatient to wait for the spirit-lamp to do its work.

It was not until she had settled herself cozily into the deep armchair that he broke the silence.

“How would you like to spend a month or so down at Rottingdean? I’ve got a small cottage there; very comfortable, very lonely and very quiet.”

The unexpected question startled her. The proposal upset all her schemes, and the call for an immediate reply tried her skill.

“What made you think of it?” she asked, temporizing.

“Well, I thought it might be—pleasanter, if we kept out of sight for a while.”

“Oh, I see! I see! Do you like the idea?”

“I rather do. I’d like anywhere with you; best of all, anywhere, we should always be together.”

“Until——”

“Until what?”

“Until you’re tired of me.”

He did not answer, and she went over to him and sat down at his feet, her head resting on his knee. It was preferable to her to sit so, her face hidden from him; eyes are traitors oftentimes.

“Always together,” she went on, “how good that would be for me; for me. But, George, I don’t think it would be good for us both.”

“You mean what?”

“Why this, dear. The woman depends upon the man, always wants him near her if not actually with her. Men, I think, are different; they only depend upon us sometimes, and then they come to us.”

“Then you don’t know what I know, dear. You’ve taught me to depend upon you—always, altogether, all day long. While I was waiting for you just now, I was mad because the thought entered my head that perhaps you did not really love me very much, after all.”

“What a silly thought! But I’m glad it hurt you; isn’t that horrid of me?”

He leaned down and kissed her upturned face.

“Well,” he said, “what about Rottingdean?”

“George—before I tell you what I think—tell me right out, what put the notion into your head? You think we should be safer there than here?”

“Why, of course——”

“I don’t agree with you. Your being there is sure to get into the papers one way or another. He will see it there, or some dear, kind friend will tell him, and he’d come down.”

“It’s funny we didn’t think of that!”

“We?” she asked quickly. “Who’s we?”

“Why, I—er—met Mortimer. He’s often done my thinking for me, so I chatted my difficulty over with him.”

“Two great, clever men of the world, and one, wee, little foolish idea! Why didn’t you come and talk it over with me?”

“Somehow—I didn’t like to.”

“Well, let’s forget clever Mr. Fred. Don’t you agree with me, it wouldn’t do?”

“Ye-es, I do. We could go abroad?”

“That would only make his journey after us longer. He’s a saint, which means one part of lunacy to nine parts of obstinacy. It’s this pig-headedness that makes them martyrs. Who was it said that a ‘martyr is a persecutor who has got the worst of it?’ Edward will persecute me until I give in, or he dies.”

“He shan’t!” Maddison interjected angrily.

“Oh, no, he shan’t indeed,” she continued, laughing, “because—I won’t let him. Now, while you two wise men of the West End have been talking, I’ve been thinking. Part of your plan fits in with mine. You must go away——”

“Not without you!”

“If not without me, you may as well stay here. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“Of course I do. That’s the only want I have.”

“Then you must make me unhappy for a little while, so that I may be quite happy by and by. If you go down to Rottingdean alone, I’ll manage that Edward shall hear of it. He’ll watch you, find out that I’m not with you, and leave you alone. I’ll stay here; I shan’t bother to hide away; I don’t mind if he does find me out, and come to see me. I don’t think he’ll do it twice. Besides, obstinate as he is, he must have some pride somewhere, and some other woman may catch hold of him: I never believed the story St. Anthony told. And there’s this hope too: he may begin to think he’s neglecting his real work in hunting after me.”

“That’s what Mortimer thought.”

“Did he? Now—don’t you see that my way is the better?”

“It doesn’t make any difference. I won’t leave you.”

“Don’t you know I hate the mere thought of it? But, George, I won’t sacrifice the future to the present, as you’re so ready to do. It isn’t as if you were going millions of miles away. You can easily run up to town every now and then—you needn’t go near the studio, just stop here a night or two. I can run down to Brighton. You mustn’t be obstinate.”

“I shall hate it.”

“So shall I!” she exclaimed, jumping up, “so shall I. But it’s the best way. Do you love me so little, George, that you don’t know that I’m only thinking of how we can be happiest in the end? We must buy the future at the expense of the present.”

Then, sitting on his knees, she took his face between her warm hands, looked into his eyes, slowly put her lips to his, slowly kissed him.

“You witch!” he said. “You always have your own way!”

“How untrue! But, George,” she added quickly, laying her head on his shoulder, “don’t misunderstand me, don’t. I want you, want you always, and I shall be miserable while you are away. I shall just count the days. But you’ll come up to see me and I’ll come down to see you; it might be worse. And how lovely it’ll be when you come back.”

Maddison was dining out that night, and she made him resist the sudden temptation to telegraph to his hostess, pleading illness as an excuse for not keeping his engagement. They talked on until at the last he was compelled to hurry off, the leave-taking abruptly ended by her laughingly pushing him out.

Then she danced back to the drawing room, overjoyed that fate had played so well into her hands, offering her the opportunity for which she had been longing, of being free upon occasion to go whither she liked and to do what she willed.

“If only all men were as easy to fool!” she thought; “perhaps they are, when one knows them and they don’t know us.”

She picked up her hat which she had flung on the sofa, and pinned it on quickly. Then she went out, closing the hall door quietly behind her, but instead of going down, ran upstairs to the top floor, where Ethel Harding lived, as she said, nearer heaven in this world than she was likely to be in the next.

“Hullo, it’s you!” she said, answering herself to Marian’s ring. “Come along in. The girl’s out and I’m all alone and lonely.”

She led the way into a small sitting room, comfortably but somewhat gaudily furnished and decorated; a bright fire burned in the small grate; an incandescent gas light glared on each side of the overmantel; on the round table in the center were a dilapidated flower in a crimson pot; an ash tray, full to overflowing with cigarette ends and ashes; and, on a dirty cheap Japanese tray, a half-empty siphon of soda water, a bottle of brandy three parts full, and a tumbler.

“I’m in an awful mess, I always am!” Mrs. Harding exclaimed, as she picked a newspaper and a novel out of an armchair and flung them on the sofa. “There, do sit down. Look at me too, but this old tea gown is comfy. I hope you’ve had your tea?—Eh?”

“Just finished it.”

“Good, for there isn’t a drop of hot water ready. I’m not much of a tea fighter myself—a B. and S. is more in my line. Have one? No? Well, smoke anyway. Here’s a new sort the old man brought along: they’re not bad; they’re like him, not bad but might be better. Though I mustn’t grumble at him now, for he just ran up to give me these and to say he’s off for a week.”

“Is he? Then I’m in luck, for I’m alone too. Can’t we go out and dine somewhere?”

“Why, yes. We’ll go to the Inferno, as I call it; we’re sure to meet some pals; at least I shall, and I’ll introduce them if you like.”

“Of course I should. I haven’t been there for an age, and I do want some fun.”

“Getting tired of Georgie? He is a bit serious.”

“Well, I think I shall appreciate him all the more if I don’t see too much of him.”

“And he’ll like you all the longer if he don’t see too much of you. That sounds jolly rude, don’t it? But men are all alike in some things, and one of them is that they’re always singing ‘When other lips.’ And just you beware when they begin to protest that they can’t get on without you: that’s always a sign of the beginning of the end to my mind. Right-oh! Have a B. and S.? No—well, daresay you’re right. I’ll have one more and then I’ll dress and we’ll be off. The Inferno’s crammed always and I hate sitting at a table with other people, unless I’m one and he the other,” she added, laughing.

There was something bold and free about the figure of the woman as she stood beside the table with her hand raised to put the glass to her mouth, the clinging folds of the slight tea gown showing clearly the outline of her stalwart figure, her broad shoulders and shapely breasts. Marian felt slight and fragile by comparison.

Something of the difference between them had evidently struck Mrs. Harding at the same moment, for she said as she put down the empty glass:

“We make a good couple, we shall never interfere with each other’s game. I suppose you’re just about as tall as me, but you’re slight and I’m big—quite big enough; I’m black and you’re golden. Are you going to change? I shouldn’t if I were you—that’s right—we can chat while I get on my togs. Where’s Georgie off to?”

“Only dining out.”

“Oh! Coming along later on?”

“I expect so.”

“What a nuisance; you’ll have to be back early, and I was counting on having some fun and perhaps bringing a couple of boys home with us. Well, you must make the best of a short time and hope for better luck.”

Marian made no response, though she was disappointed and wished that she were free for adventure, any that would break the dull monotony of her present way of living. The license of this woman’s life made hers by comparison all the more strait.

Pausing for a minute at her flat to put on her furs, Marian and her new friend went down.

“Shall we bump it in a motor, or go comfy in a hansom?”

“Whichever you like,” Marian answered. “I’ve not much choice, but I feel rather ‘hansomy’ this evening, don’t you?”

“I always do. I was born with the itch of spending. The only thing that I shall do cheap will be my funeral, and I don’t worry about that. Here’s one, with a horse that don’t show too many of his ribs. Jump in and I’ll climb sedately after—not that there’s anyone about who’d admire my tootsies if I did show ’em and a trifle more.”

Comparatively early as they were, the big grill room was nearly full, and they had to content themselves with a small table in a far corner, where, however, they could see, even if not much seen.

“It does make me laugh,” said Mrs. Harding, as she rolled back her gloves, “to see the calm cheek of some fellows. See that bald-headed old Jew just over there? That’s his wife with him. Last night he was sitting at the same table with Florrie Kemp. You don’t know her?”

“No.”

“She’s a devil. Drinks like a fish. Now what are we going to eat and drink?”

For a short while Marian seemed out of tune with the scene and with her comrade, but the heat of the room, the swirl of the music and the buzz of voices, the rich food and the wine warmed her, and she fell in with the spirit of her companion.

“Hullo! There’s Nosey Geraldstein staring at you as if he’d like to eat you. He hates me, so let’s have him over. He’s mean as Moses, and it’ll be fun to make him pay the bill and then say ‘Good night’! He’s coming! He’s the ugliest man in London and—always gets any girl he wants. So, look out for yourself. Hullo, Sydney, you tried to look the other way; yes, you may join us, if you promise to behave nicely. Let me introduce you to Mrs. Squire.”

Marian thought that the description of Geraldstein as the ugliest man in town was, at any rate, no gross exaggeration; his heavy, dark face, black and lusterless eyes, lusterless, lank, black hair, and gross, prominent chin, were far from prepossessing. To her surprise his voice was soft, pleasant and refined; she almost laughed, it was so unexpected: a voice that to a handsome man would have been an added attraction, came as if contrary to the course of nature from one so grotesquely, almost bestially, ugly.

“I never look for anyone here,” he said. “If a friend sees me and says, ‘Hail, fellow,’ all right, but in a crowd I’m lost. This is a nice, secluded haven of refuge you’ve found, and it’s very good of you to let me share it.”

“These are his ‘just-introduced-to-a-stranger’ manners, Marian. Sydney’s got more soft soap at his command than all the washerwomen in London.”

“But not enough to cleanse the reputations of some of my friends,” said Geraldstein. “Why drink Burgundy? It’s a dull, stupid wine. There are only three wines worth drinking: Rhine wine when I want to be inspired; claret when I want to be stimulated; and champagne when I want to remember the days when we were all young and innocent. So—shall we have a bottle of—fizzy wine?”

“It’d take several bottles to make you forget yourself,” said Mrs. Harding, who had flushed uneasily under his open sneer.

“Ah, Ethel, you’ll never make a conversationalist; you should learn to give and never take. Here’s Francis—I call all waiters Francis, it reminds me of the Boar’s Head—he’s one of my tame waiters. It pays to have a tame waiter everywhere.”

The time went by quickly, Geraldstein exerting himself to please Marian, who for her part enjoyed herself thoroughly. The good talk, the good wine and good food, the atmosphere of gayety, the sense of freedom, intoxicated her senses, and Geraldstein congratulated himself that he had thought it worth while suffering Ethel Harding for the sake of an introduction to the pretty woman with her. He wondered who she could be and what—evidently not an ordinary woman of the town.

The wine heated Marian, who usually drank sparingly, calling a splendid glow to her cheeks and brilliancy to her eyes; many of the men there envied Geraldstein. She listened to his gay chatter and to Ethel Harding’s coarser talk, joining in gayly herself, not caring what she said, uttering every quip and innuendo that came to her lips, and taking the meaning of his delicately-veiled impudences with laughter and railing rejoinders. A woman to go mad about for a time at any rate, thought Geraldstein. But a peculiarly broad remark of Mrs. Harding’s grated on her, and chilled her spirit. She suddenly realized that Geraldstein was examining her points as he would those of a horse or a dog the purchase of which he was considering. She seemed to hear the chink of his gold as he bid for her favors, and the thought sickened her. She could understand the drunkenness of indiscriminate passion or the joy of purchasing power by the pretense of passion, but cold-blooded bargaining with coins disgusted her.

It was now past ten o’clock, and she made the hour an excuse for moving.

“Don’t let me break up the party; you’re in no hurry, Ethel!” she said, using the Christian name as Mrs. Harding had used hers, “but I must be off.”

“Off?” said Geraldstein. “What a pity! It’s quite early.”

“Yes, quite early,” Marian answered. “I like being quite early. You settle the bill, Ethel, and I’ll square up with you to-morrow.”

“You’ll let me see you into a cab?” Geraldstein protested.

“No, thanks. I can look after myself quite well.”

Geraldstein did not press the point, and Marian went away alone.