graph
like one that she had given him, and which even then was thrust between
the frame and glass of his mirror. He read the article through; it
sketched her life and character and the circumstances of her death with
the relentless terseness of the writer cramped for space. According to
this view, the causes of her death were unknown. It had been remarked
that she had of late been despondent and in ill health.

Vandover threw the paper down and straightened up, naked and dripping,
putting both hands to his head. In a low voice under his breath he said:

"What have I done? What have I done now?"

Like the sudden unrolling of a great scroll he saw his responsibility
for her death and for the ruin of that something in her which was more
than life. What would become of her now? And what would become of him?
For a single brief instant he tried to persuade himself that Ida had
consented after all. But he knew that this was not so. She had
consented, but he had forced her consent; he was none the less guilty.
And then in that dreadful moment when he saw things in their true light,
all the screens of conventionality and sophistry torn away, the words
that young Haight had spoken came back to him. No matter if she had
consented, it was his duty to have protected her, even against herself.

He walked the floor with great strides, steaming with the warm water,
striking his head with his hands and crying out, "Oh, this is fearful,
fearful! What have I done now? I have killed her; yes, and worse!"

He could think of nothing worse that could have happened to him. What a
weight of responsibility to carry--he who hated responsibility of any
kind, who had always tried to escape from anything that was even
irksome, who loved his ease, his comfort, his peace of mind!

At every moment now he saw the different consequences of what he had
done. Now, it was that his life was ruined, and that all through its
course this crime would hang like a millstone about his neck. There
could be no more enjoyment of anything for him; all the little pleasures
and little self-indulgences which till now had delighted him were
spoiled and rendered impossible. The rest of his life would have to be
one long penitence; any pleasure he might take would only make his crime
seem more abominable.

Now, it was a furious revolt against his mistake that had led him to
such a fearful misunderstanding of Ida; a silent impotent rage against
himself and against the