ent. Then she sank back
into Addie Tristram's great arm-chair, asking, "Will she do it well?"

"No," said Harry. "She's a good sort, but she won't do it well."

Cecily sighed and turned her head toward the window.

"Why do you do it? Do you care for her?"

"I like her. And I want money. She's very rich. Money might be useful to
me."

"You seem very rich. Why do you want money?"

"I might want it."

There was silence for a moment. "Well, I hope you'll be happy," she said
presently.

She herself was the reason--the embodied reason (was reason ever more
fairly embodied?), why he was going to marry Janie Iver. The
monstrousness of it rose before his mind. When he told of his
engagement, there had been for an instant a look in her eyes. Wonder it
was at least. Was it disappointment? Was it at all near to
consternation? She sat very still now; her gayety was gone. She was like
Addie Tristram still, but like Addie when the hard world used her ill,
when there were aches to be borne and sins to be reckoned with. As he
watched her, yet another new thing came upon him, or a thing that seemed
to be as new as the last quarter chimed by the old French clock on the
mantel-piece, and yet might date back so long as three days ago. Even
now it hardly reached consciousness, certainly did not attain
explicitness. It was still rather than Janie was no mistress for Blent
and that this girl was the ideal. It was Blent still rather than
himself, Blent's mistress rather than his. But it was enough to set a
new edge on his questioning. Was he to be the man--he who looked on her
now and saw how fair she was--was he to be the man to deny her her own,
to rob her of her right, to parade before the world in the trappings
which were hers? It was all so strange, so overwhelming. He dropped into
a chair by him and pressed his hand across his brow. A low murmur,
almost a groan, escaped him in the tumult of his soul. "My God!" he
whispered, in a whisper that seemed to echo through the room.

"Harry! Are you unhappy?" In an instant she was by him. "What is it? I
don't understand. You tell me you're engaged, and you look so unhappy.
Why do you marry her if you don't love her? Are you giving her all
this--and yourself--you yourself--without loving her? Dear Harry--yes,
you've been very good to me--dear Harry, why?"

"Go back," he said. "Go back to your chair. Go and sit there."

With wonder in her eyes and a smile fresh-born on her lips she obey