's the sort she is, he'll probably be mad about her all his life,
even if he marries her. But he'll not be true to her; I know the type
now."

K. leaned back with a flicker of pain in his eyes.

"What can I do about it?"

Astute as he was, he did not suspect that Christine was using this
method to fathom his feeling for Sidney. Perhaps she hardly knew it
herself.

"You might marry her yourself, K."

But he had himself in hand by this time, and she learned nothing from
either his voice or his eyes.

"On twenty dollars a week? And without so much as asking her consent?"
He dropped his light tone. "I'm not in a position to marry anybody. Even
if Sidney cared for me, which she doesn't, of course--"

"Then you don't intend to interfere? You're going to let the Street see
another failure?"

"I think you can understand," said K. rather wearily, "that if I cared
less, Christine, it would be easier to interfere."

After all, Christine had known this, or surmised it, for weeks. But it
hurt like a fresh stab in an old wound. It was K. who spoke again after
a pause:--

"The deadly hard thing, of course, is to sit by and see things happening
that one--that one would naturally try to prevent."

"I don't believe that you have always been of those who only stand and
wait," said Christine. "Sometime, K., when you know me better and like
me better, I want you to tell me about it, will you?"

"There's very little to tell. I held a trust. When I discovered that I
was unfit to hold that trust any longer, I quit. That's all."

His tone of finality closed the discussion. But Christine's eyes were on
him often that evening, puzzled, rather sad.

They talked of books, of music--Christine played well in a dashing way.
K. had brought her soft, tender little things, and had stood over her
until her noisy touch became gentle. She played for him a little, while
he sat back in the big chair with his hand screening his eyes.

When, at last, he rose and picked up his cap; it was nine o'clock.

"I've taken your whole evening," he said remorsefully. "Why don't you
tell me I am a nuisance and send me off?"

Christine was still at the piano, her hands on the keys. She spoke
without looking at him:--

"You're never a nuisance, K., and--"

"You'll go out to see Tillie, won't you?"

"Yes. But I'll not go under false pretenses. I am going quite frankly
because you want me to."

Something in her tone caught his attention.

"I forgot