in the Dolomites and their sojourn there together, but always in
the terms of romance. . . . She had never given him a glance of
understanding. . . . And she had put off the wedding until the last
possible moment. . . . If she had really been as eager as himself she
would have left her power of attorney with Trent and started for
Austria six weeks ago. Or the papers could have been sent to her to
sign, if her signature were imperative. . . . And in spite of the fact
that everybody had taken the engagement for granted, she had, with
wholly insufficient reasons,--as he saw, now that he was removed from
the influence of her plausible and dominating self,--refused to
announce it. Could it be that in the depths of her mind--unadmitted by
her consciousness--she had never intended to marry him? Was that old
revulsion paramount? . . . Sixteen years! . . . A long time, and
nothing in life is more corroding than habit.

Perhaps--as long as they were down there in New York. But not up here.
That he would be willing to swear. There had been another revolution,
involuntary perhaps, but the stronger for that; and every shackle that
memory and habit can forge had dropped from her. She had been youth
incarnate. The proof was in her joyful consent to marry him
immediately and remain in the mountains . . . and then her complete
surrender of the future into his hands. . . . She had during those
three brief days loved him wholly, and without a shadow in her soul.

But now? Whatever had happened, she was not Mary Ogden tonight,
hastening to New York, nor would she be when in her own house on the
morrow. She might hate Hohenhauer, but his mere presence would have
made the past live again. She must have known when she went down that
mountain that even with her strong will and powers of self-delusion,
things could not be quite the same again. Not even if she had returned
with Dinwiddie. Why in heaven's name had she been so mad as to go?
She could have sent Hohenhauer a peremptory refusal to see him and then
gone off on a camping trip that could have lasted until he gave up the
game. She must have been mad--mad.

And he did not believe for a moment that she had gone to Washington.

She had gone home to think--think.

And if he followed Dinwiddie's advice and remained here she might think
too long. And if he followed and insisted upon seeing her, the result
might be more fatal still. He knew nothing of those personali