left!"

"I went to see Max yesterday. You know what he thinks about all that."

He took an uneasy turn up and down the balcony.

"But who?" he demanded. "Who would do such a thing? I tell you,
Christine, it isn't possible."

She did not pursue the subject. Her thoughts had flown ahead to the
little house without K., to days without his steps on the stairs or the
heavy creak of his big chair overhead as he dropped into it.

But perhaps it would be better if he went. She had her own life to live.
She had no expectation of happiness, but, somehow or other, she must
build on the shaky foundation of her marriage a house of life, with
resignation serving for content, perhaps with fear lurking always. That
she knew. But with no active misery. Misery implied affection, and her
love for Palmer was quite dead.

"Sidney will be here this afternoon."

"Good." His tone was non-committal.

"Has it occurred to you, K., that Sidney is not very happy?"

He stopped in front of her.

"She's had a great anxiety."

"She has no anxiety now. Max is doing well."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm not quite sure, but I think I know. She's lost faith in Max, and
she's not like me. I--I knew about Palmer before I married him. I got a
letter. It's all rather hideous--I needn't go into it. I was afraid to
back out; it was just before my wedding. But Sidney has more character
than I have. Max isn't what she thought he was, and I doubt whether
she'll marry him."

K. glanced toward the street where Sidney's name and Max's lay open to
the sun and to the smiles of the Street. Christine might be right, but
that did not alter things for him.

Christine's thoughts went back inevitably to herself; to Palmer, who was
doing better just now; to K., who was going away--went back with an ache
to the night K. had taken her in his arms and then put her away. How
wrong things were! What a mess life was!

"When you go away," she said at last, "I want you to remember this. I'm
going to do my best, K. You have taught me all I know. All my life I'll
have to overlook things; I know that. But, in his way, Palmer cares for
me. He will always come back, and perhaps sometime--"

Her voice trailed off. Far ahead of her she saw the years stretching
out, marked, not by days and months, but by Palmer's wanderings away,
his remorseful returns.

"Do a little more than forgetting," K. said. "Try to care for him,
Christine. You did once. And that's your strongest weap