owing and smiling at
them, her dark eyes dancing with happiness and ignoring him utterly,
her whole body trembling to the intoxication of success. Oh, it was
all over; even if there had been no gulf of death between them, it was
all over. She had deliberately chosen to forget, under the inspiration
of her art she had forgotten. It had usurped her thought, her
ambition, her every energy. She had won her way through the throng,
yet the very struggle of such winning had sufficed to crowd him out
from memory had left the past as barren as was the desert amid the
dreariness of which they had parted. He set his teeth hard, striking
his clenched fist against the cushioned arm of the chair. Then he sat
silent, his cigar extinguished. Once he glanced at his watch, but
already the hour was too late for any hope of catching the west-bound
train, and he dropped it back in his pocket, and sat motionless.
Suddenly some one rapped upon the outside door. It would be Craig,
probably, and he called out a regretful "Come in." A bell-boy stood
there, his buttoned-up figure silhouetted against the lights in the
hall.

"Lady in Parlor D asked me to hand you this, sir," the boy said.

He accepted the slight bit of paper, scarcely comprehending what it
could all mean, turned on an electric bulb over the dresser, and looked
at it. A single line of delicate writing confronted him, so faint that
he was compelled to bend closer to decipher: "_If you are waiting my
word, I send it._"

He caught at the dresser-top as though some one had struck him, staring
down at the card in his hand, and then around the silent room, his
breath grown rapid. At first the words were almost meaningless; then
the blood came surging up into his face, and he walked toward the door.
There he paused, his hand already upon the knob. What use? What use?
Why should he seek her, even although she bade him come? She might no
longer care, but he did; to her such a meeting might be only a mere
incident, an experience to be lightly talked over, but to him such an
interview could only prove continual torture. But no! The thought
wronged her; such an action would not be possible to Beth Norvell. If
she despatched this message it had been done honestly, done graciously.
He would show himself a craven if he failed to face whatever awaited
him below. With tightly compressed lips, he closed the door, and
walked to the elevator.

She stood waiting him alone, slight