fooled, of course. Starved as I was
for the affection of a man, I may have been blind to the sincerity of his
protestations. But I believed him.

"As to how I felt toward him: I don't know. I liked him--admired him. I
believe that I loved him. But again we are faced with the abnormal
condition in which I found myself. I believe I loved him as I believe he
loved me. He represented a chance for life when for three years I had
been dead--living and breathing--yet dead as a woman. And that is the
most terrible of all deaths.

"We planned to elope. Don't ask me how I could consider such a thing.
There is no answer possible. It wasn't a sane decision--but I decided
that I would. There was the craving to get away from things--to try to
start over. To revel in the richest things of life for awhile. I was
selfish--unutterably so. I didn't think then of the effect on my
husband--or of the effect on Evelyn. I was selfish--yes. But immoral--no!
What I planned to do--under the circumstances--was not immoral. Even yet
I cannot convince myself that it was.

"Roland laid all his plans to leave the city. In all my delirium of
preparation--the hiding and the secrecy--I felt sincerely sorry for only
one person, and that person was Hazel Gresham to whom Mr. Warren was
engaged. I believe she was in love with him. But so was I--and if he
loved me--as I said before, Mr. Carroll--I was selfish!

"On the morning of the day we were to go--my husband was in Nashville,
you know--Mr. Warren came to the house in his car. He showed me that he
had reserved a drawing-room for us to New York. In order that we would
not be seen together, he gave me one of the railroad tickets. I was to
reach the Union Station ten minutes before train time. If you
recall--the train on which we were to go was quite late that night.

"We planned not to talk to one another at the station until after
boarding the train. Morning would have published news of the scandal
broadcast, but until the irrevocable step had been taken--we determined
to avoid gossip. And, Mr. Carroll--I was then--what is called a 'good
woman'. My faithlessness up to that time, and to this moment, had been
mental--and mental only.

"When he left me that morning he took with him my suit-case. We had
agreed that I was not to take a trunk: that I was to buy--a
trousseau--in New York. I looked upon it almost as a honeymoon. He took
my suit-case to the Union Station and checked it there. I did not see