enough to eat since dinner with Peter Stark. He
lighted a cigarette, by way of dulling his appetite, and then let it
smoulder to ashes between his fingers, while he lost himself in profound
speculations, in painstaking analysis of the girl's position.

Subconsciously he grew aware that the storm was moderating perceptibly,
the sky breaking....

"I've finished," the girl announced at length.

"You're feeling better?"

"Stronger, I think."

"Is there anything more--?"

"If you wouldn't mind sitting down--"

She had twisted her arm-chair away from the table. Whitaker took a seat
a little distance from her, with a keen glance appraising the change in
her condition and finding it not so marked as he had hoped. Still, she
seemed measurably more composed and mistress of her emotions, though he
had to judge mostly by her voice and manner, so dark was the room.
Through the shadows he could see little more than masses of light and
shade blocking in the slender figure huddled in a big, dilapidated
chair--the pallid oval of her face, and the darkness of her wide,
intent, young eyes.

"Don't!" she cried sharply. "Please don't look at me so--"

"I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to--"

"It's only--only that you make me think of what you must be thinking
about me--"

"I think you're rather fortunate," he said slowly.

"Fortunate!"

He shivered a little with the chill bitterness of that cry.

"You've had a narrow but a wonderfully lucky escape."

"Oh! ... But I'm not glad ... I was desperate--"

"I mean," he interrupted coolly, "from Mr. Morton. The silver lining is,
you're not married to a blackguard."

"Oh, yes, yes!" she agreed passionately.

"And you have youth, health, years of life before you!"

He sighed inaudibly....

"You wouldn't say that, if you understood."

"There are worse things to put up with than youth and health and the
right to live."

"But--how can I live? What am I to do?"

"Have you thought of going home?"

"It isn't possible."

"Have you made sure of that? Have you written to your
father--explained?"

"I sent him a special delivery three days ago, and--and yesterday a
telegram. I knew it wouldn't do any good, but I ... I told him
everything. He didn't answer. He won't, ever."

From what Whitaker knew of Thurlow Ladislas, he felt this to be too
cruelly true to admit of further argument. At a loss, he fell silent,
knitting his hands together as he strove to find other words wher