into see him?"

"I can't. That's the truth. I can't face the poor youngster."

"He doesn't seem to blame you; he says it's all in the game."

"Sidney, does Christine know that I was not alone that night?"

"If she guesses, it is not because of anything the boy has said. He has
told nothing."

Out of the firelight, away from the chatter and the laughter, Palmer's
face showed worn and haggard. He put his free hand on Sidney's shoulder.

"I was thinking that perhaps if I went away--"

"That would be cowardly, wouldn't it?"

"If Christine would only say something and get it over with! She doesn't
sulk; I think she's really trying to be kind. But she hates me, Sidney.
She turns pale every time I touch her hand."

All the light had died out of Sidney's face. Life was terrible, after
all--overwhelming. One did wrong things, and other people suffered; or
one was good, as her mother had been, and was left lonely, a widow, or
like Aunt Harriet. Life was a sham, too. Things were so different from
what they seemed to be: Christine beyond the door, pouring tea and
laughing with her heart in ashes; Palmer beside her, faultlessly dressed
and wretched. The only one she thought really contented was K. He seemed
to move so calmly in his little orbit. He was always so steady, so
balanced. If life held no heights for him, at least it held no depths.

So Sidney thought, in her ignorance!

"There's only one thing, Palmer," she said gravely. "Johnny Rosenfeld
is going to have his chance. If anybody in the world can save him, Max
Wilson can."

The light of that speech was in her eyes when she went out to the sleigh
again. K. followed her out and tucked the robes in carefully about her.

"Warm enough?"

"All right, thank you."

"Don't go too far. Is there any chance of having you home for supper?"

"I think not. I am to go on duty at six again."

If there was a shadow in K.'s eyes, she did not see it. He waved them
off smilingly from the pavement, and went rather heavily back into the
house.

"Just how many men are in love with you, Sidney?" asked Max, as Peggy
started up the Street.

"No one that I know of, unless--"

"Exactly. Unless--"

"What I meant," she said with dignity, "is that unless one counts very
young men, and that isn't really love."

"We'll leave out Joe Drummond and myself--for, of course, I am very
young. Who is in love with you besides Le Moyne? Any of the internes at
the hospital?"

"Me! Le Moyn