years will go again. And, too possibly, in the
wrong place. . . . It is quite likely that you will never be
suspected, because women often bloom out in their forties, take on a
new lease of life. Begin to put on a little make-up----"

Miss Trevor interrupted with a horrified exclamation.

"It would be judicious. If they criticize you, remember that nothing
they can say will be as bad--from your point of view--as their finding
out the truth. They will lay it to that, and to the fact that you have
grown a little stouter. And let me tell you, you won't care in the
least, even if conservatism attacks you in solid battalions, for your
mental attitude to life will be entirely changed. Remember that you
will be young again, and too gay and happy to mind what people think of
you. Now, promise me that you will take my advice, and then go home
and to bed."

Miss Trevor got up and went to the mirror. "Yes, I'll do it." And
then she said, no doubt for the first time in her life: "And I'll not
give a damn, no matter what happens."

When she had left Mary Zattiany stood for a few moments striking her
hands together, her face distorted. A wave of nausea overwhelmed her.
She felt as if there had been an earthquake in her own soul and its
muck were riding the surface. She loathed herself and all women and
all men. She knew that the violence of the revulsion must be
temporary, but for the moment it was beyond her control. She went to
the telephone and called up Clavering and told him that she had a
severe headache and was going to bed. And she cut short both his
protests and his expression of sympathy by hanging up the receiver.
And then she picked up a vase and hurled it to the floor and smashed it.

XLIII

Clavering stood on his high balcony and looked down upon Madison
Square. Spring had come. The Square looked like an oasis in a rocky
gorge. The trees were covered with the tender greens of the new birth,
and even President Arthur and Roscoe Conkling, less green than in
winter, looked reconciled to their lot. A few people were sunning
themselves on the benches, many more were on top of the busses over on
Fifth Avenue, and even the hurrying throngs, preoccupied with crass
business, seemed to walk with a lighter step, their heads up, instead
of sullenly defying winds and sleet. The eight streets that surrounded
or debouched into the Square poured forth continuous streams of
figures, constantly augmented