to bring dishonor and shame upon the wife herself. He veiled his
eyes and let his palm drop out from under the pressure of the cold
little fingers.

"It's not necessarily a question of years," he said, after a silence in
which it seemed to him that she must be able to count his heart-throbs.
"Dane told me what the doctor said. He hopes this place will work a
complete cure, and it may not be long before your husband pulls himself
together again."

He had turned a little away from her; but he knew she was still looking
at him. He could feel the pathetic appeal in her eyes, yet he never
wavered. However brutal he might seem to her now, he knew that the hour
would come when she would be grateful to him.

With an effort, she steadied herself.

"I am afraid it is impossible. He has gone too far; the pull now is all
downward."

"What about your hold on him?" Thayer asked quietly.

Beatrix started, as if he had laid a clumsy thumb on an exposed nerve.

"My hold!" she said, with a sudden fierceness. "Do you think that there
is no limit to the help which I must give him?" Then her voice dropped.
"No; I have let go. It is no use. I have done all I can, and now I can
only wait till the play is over and the curtain drops. Perhaps it may
not be so very long, after all. It spoils any tragedy, if the last acts
drag."

He had been fired by her passion; but he had resisted it. Now her
despair unmanned him. It was only the old, old situation: the guiltless
one must suffer for the guilty. The fact in general terms he accepted as
a necessary evil; the particular instance was unbearable. Once more, and
for the last time, the balance wavered; then slowly, steadily it dipped
into position. The tragedy would be no less a tragedy, because a new
hero took the stage for the final acts. He tried to find words to say;
but they refused to come at his bidding. He could only stand mute and
look down at her, as she sat in her old place by the table, with her
head buried in her arms.

The seconds passed and lengthened into minutes. Little by little, the
cold, gray light of the snowy morning was creeping into the room,
dimming the lamplight to pale yellow streaks and filling the place with
a chill, forbidding gloom. The stillness was so absolute that Thayer
could hear his watch ticking in his pocket, could hear the beating of
his own heart. Neither one of them moved, or spoke. In the next room,
there was a faint sound; but they never heeded it.