ties she
may have concealed from him. For all he knew she might have depths in
her nature as black as the bottomless pit.

And God only knew what the man had said to her. . . . Should he let
her fight it out by herself? What in heaven's name should he do?
Whatever happened, this divine interval, like some exquisitely adjusted
musical instrument, had been hopelessly jarred out of tune. He almost
hoped she would not return. Let it remain a perfect memory. . . .
They could marry in New York and return here, when she was his
wife. . . . If he had not already lost her. . . . What in God's name
was the thing for him to do? He'd go mad if he stayed here, and if he
went he might regret it for the rest of his days. Why could not light
be vouchsafed him?

Gora.

Fortunately he knew her room for he had carried up her luggage. He ran
lightly up the stairs and tapped on her door. A startled sleepy voice
answered. He opened the door and put in his head.

"Come downstairs at once, Gora," he said peremptorily. "I must talk to
you."

She came down in a moment, clad in a scarlet kimono, her hair hanging
in thick braids. With her large round forehead exposed she looked not
unlike a gnome, but curiously young.

"What on earth is the matter, Clavey?" she asked as she pushed her
chair as close to the fire as possible. "It has something to do with
this sudden trip of Mary's, I suppose. Mr. Dinwiddie said she had been
called to New York on important business, and the others accepted the
explanation as a matter of course; but I'll confess I wondered."

Clavering, still too nervous to sit down, jerked out the whole story,
omitting only the old love affair with the man who had exercised so
strong an influence on Mary Zattiany's later life.

"You see," he concluded, "there are two things: Austria had taken the
place in her affections that women of her age generally concentrate on
human beings--it became almost a sacrament. And then--for nearly
twenty years she had hated everything in men but their minds. Sex was
not only dead but a detestable memory. After that rejuvenescence she
had never cast a thought to loving any man again. That mental habit,
at least, was fixed. When I met her she was a walking intellect. . . .
I thought I had changed all that . . . up here I had not a doubt
left . . . but now . . . I don't know. . . . Put that cold-blooded
mind of yours on it and tell me what to do."

"Let me think a minut