ord. But even as
she reached the window and glanced down to the hot, dusty street, she
heard a loud voice below, a reckless, ribald sort of voice, calling to
some one to, "Come and have a drink."

"Billy!" she said involuntarily, and looked down, then shrank back
quickly. She turned swiftly on her husband. "Your soul and honour,
Charley!" she said slowly. "Look at what you've made of Billy! Look at
the company he keeps--John Brown, who hasn't even decency enough to keep
away from the place he disgraced. Billy is always with him. You ruined
John Brown, with your dissipation and your sneers at religion and
your-'I-wonder-nows!' Of what use have you been, Charley? Of what use to
anyone in the world? You think of nothing but eating, and drinking, and
playing the fop."

He glanced down involuntarily, and carefully flicked some cigarette-ash
from his waistcoat. The action arrested her speech for a moment, and
then, with a little shudder, she continued: "The best they can say of
you is, 'There goes Charley Steele!'"

"And the worst?" he asked. He was almost smiling now, for he admired her
anger, her scorn. He knew it was deserved, and he had no idea of making
any defence. He had said all in that instant's cry, "Kathleen!"--that
one awakening feeling of his life so far. She had congealed the word on
his lips by her scorn, and now he was his old debonair, dissipated self,
with the impertinent monocle in his eye and a jest upon his tongue.

"Do you want to know the worst they say?" she asked, growing pale to
the lips. "Go and stand behind the door of Jolicoeur's saloon. Go to any
street corner, and listen. Do you think I don't know what they say? Do
you think the world doesn't talk about the company you keep? Haven't I
seen you going into Jolicoeur's saloon when I was walking on the other
side of the street? Do you think that all the world, and I among the
rest, are blind? Oh, you fop, you fool, you have ruined my brother,
you have ruined my life, and I hate and despise you for a cold-blooded,
selfish coward!"

He made a deprecating gesture and stared--a look of most curious
inquiry. They had been married for five years, and during that time they
had never been anything but persistently courteous to each other. He had
never on any occasion seen her face change colour, or her manner show
chagrin or emotion. Stately and cold and polite, she had fairly met his
ceaseless foppery and preciseness of manner. But people had said of