emotion in her had never existed at all. Not until then had
he realised how she loved the necklace, the glitter of it, the reputed
value, the extraordinary story connected with it. Esther's life had been
built on it. And when Alston had finished and found she could not speak,
he was sorry for her and told her so.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

Esther looked at him a moment dumbly. Then her face convulsed. She was
crying.

"Don't," said Choate helplessly. "Don't do that. The thing isn't worth
it. It isn't worth anything to speak of. And it's made you a lot of
trouble, all of you, and now she's going back to Europe and she'll take
it with her."

"Going back?" Esther echoed, through her tears. "Who says she's going
back?"

"She says so," Alston rejoined weakly. He thought his hush money might
fairly be considered his own secret. It was like a candle burned in
gratitude for having found out he had dared to say, "darling Anne".

"If she would go back!" said Esther. "But she won't. She'll stay here
and talk to mill hands and drag dirty people up those stairs. And I
shall live here forever with her and grandmother, and nobody will help
me. Nobody will ever help me, Alston Choate. Do you realise that?
Nobody."

Her melting eyes were on his and she herself was out of her chair and
tremulously near. But Esther made no mistake of a too prodigal largess a
man like Reardon was bewitched by, even if he ran from it. She stood
there in sorrowful dignity and let her eyes plead for her. And Alston,
though he had accomplished something for her as well as for Anne, felt
only a sense of shame and the misery of falling short. He had thought he
loved her (he had got so far now as to say to himself he thought so) and
he loved her no more. He wished only to escape, and his wish took every
shred of the hero out of him.

"We'll all help you," he said with the cheerfulness exasperatingly ready
to be pumped up when things are bad and there is no adequate remedy.
"I'd like to. And so will Jeff."

With that he put out his hand to her, and when she unseeingly accorded
him hers gave it what he thought an awkward, cowardly pressure and left
her. There are no graceful ways for leaving Circe's isle, Alston
thought, as he hurried away, unless you have at least worn the hog's
skin briefly and given her a showing of legitimate triumph. And that
night, because he had a distaste for talking about it further, he wrote
the story to Jeff, still omitti