hideous calamity," he burst out with
self-accusation, "for bringing him there--for introducing you."

She reached out suddenly, and seized his hand.

"Don't!" she pleaded. "Do you suppose that I would give up a memory
that I have? Why, all my world is memory now! Do you suppose I blame
you--or him?"

"You might very well blame us both. We both knew of the possibilities,
and let things go on."

She rose, and let her eyes rest on him with directness. Her voice was
not angry, but very earnest.

"That is not true," she said. "It couldn't be helped. It was written.
He told me everything. He asked me to forget, and I held him--because
we loved each other. He could no more help it than he could help being
himself, fulfilling his genius when he thought he was following
another man. There are just some things--" she halted a moment, and
shook her head--"some things," she went on quietly, "that are bigger
than we are."

"But, now----" He stopped.

"But, now--" the quiet of her words hurt the man more than tears could
have done--"now, his real life has claimed him--the life that only
loaned him to me."

The telephone jangled suddenly, and Steele, whose nerves were all on
edge, started violently at the sound. Mechanically, he took up the
instrument from its table-rack, and listened.

"Yes, this is Mr. Steele. What? Mr. St. John? Tell him I'll see him
down there--to wait for me." Steele was about to replace the receiver,
when Duska's hand caught his wrist.

"No," she said quickly, "have him come here."

"Wait. Hold the wire." The man turned to the girl.

"Duska, you are only putting yourself on the rack," he pleaded. "Let
me see him alone." She shook her head with the old determination.
"Have him come here," she repeated.

"Send Mr. St. John up," ordered the Kentuckian.

One might have seen from his eyes that, when Mr. St. John arrived, his
reception would be ungracious. The man felt all the stored-up savagery
born of his helpless remonstrance. It must have some vent. Every one
and everything that had contributed to her misery were alike hateful
to him. Had he been able to talk to Saxon just then, his unreasoning
wrath would have poured itself forth as readily and bitterly as on St.
John. The sight of the agent standing in the door a few moments later,
inoffensive, even humble, failed to mollify him.

"I shall have the two pictures delivered within the next day,"
ventured the Englishman.

Steele turned brutally