Kendall as if
he had never seen her before.

She was going out with Brace and was in evening dress. Truedale had
never seen her gowned so, and he realized that she was extremely
handsome and--something more. She came close to him, drawing on her
long, loose, white gloves.

"I cannot bear to go and leave you--all alone!" she said, raising her
eyes to his.

"You see, John Morrell is showing us his brand-new wife to-night--and I
couldn't resist; but I'll try to break away early."

"You are eager to see--Mrs. Morrell?" Truedale asked, and suddenly
recalled the relation Lynda had once held to Morrell. He had not thought
of it for many a day.

"Very. You see I hope to be great friends with her. I want--"

"What, Lynda?"

"Well, to help her understand--John."

"Let me button your glove, Lyn"--for Truedale saw her hands were
trembling though her eyes were peaceful and happy. And then as the long,
slim hand rested in his, he asked:

"And you--have never regretted, Lyn?"

"Regretted? Does a woman regret when she's saved from a mistake and
gets off scot-free as well?"

They looked at each other for a moment and then Lynda drew away her
hand.

"Thanks, Con, and please miss us a little, but not too much. What will
you do to pass the time until we return?"

"I think"--Truedale pulled himself up sharply--"I think I'll go up under
the eaves and get out--the old play!"

"Oh! how splendid! And you will--let me hear it--some day, soon?"

"Yes. Business is going easier now. I can think of it without neglecting
better things. Good-night, Lyn. Tuck your coat up close, the night's
bad."

And then, alone in the warm, bright room, Truedale had a distinct sense
of Lynda having taken something besides herself away. She had left the
room hideously lonely; it became unbearable to remain there and, like a
boy, Conning ran up to the small room next the roof.

He took the old play out--he had not unpacked it since he came from Pine
Cone! He laid it before him and presently became absorbed in reading it
from the beginning. It was after eleven when he raised his tired eyes
from the pages and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm like--all men!" he muttered. "All men--and I thought things had
gone deeper with me."

What he was recognizing was that the play and the subtle influence that
Nella-Rose had had upon him had both lost their terrific hold. He could
contemplate the past without the sickening sense of wrong and shock that
had o