me." There was such
feeling in his tone that Marshby's expression softened comprehendingly.
He understood a pain that prompted even such a man to rash avowal.

"I don't believe we'd better speak of her," he said, in awkward
kindliness.

"I want to," returned Wilmer. "I want to tell you how lucky you are."

Again that shade of introspective bitterness clouded Marshby's face.
"Yes," said he, involuntarily. "But how about her? Is _she_ lucky?"

"Yes," replied Jerome, steadily. "She's got what she wants. She won't
worship you any the less because you don't worship yourself. That's the
mad way they have--women. It's an awful challenge. You've got a fight
before you, if you don't refuse it.".

"God!" groaned Marshby to himself, "it is a fight. I can't refuse it."

Wilmer put his question without mercy. "Do you want to?"

"I want her to be happy," said Marshby, with a simple humility afar from
cowardice. "I want her to be safe. I don't see how anybody could be
safe--with me."

"Well," pursued Wilmer, recklessly, "would she be safe with me?"

"I think so," said Marshby, keeping an unblemished dignity. "I have
thought that for a good many years."

"But not happy?"

"No, not happy. She would--We have been together so long."

"Yes, she'd miss you. She'd die of homesickness. Well!" He sat
contemplating Marshby with his professional stare; but really his mind
was opened for the first time to the full reason for Mary's unchanging
love. Marshby stood there so quiet, so oblivious of himself in
comparison with unseen things, so much a man from head to foot, that he
justified the woman's loyal passion as nothing had before. "Shall you
accept the consulate?" Wilmer asked, abruptly.

Brought face to face with fact, Marshby's pose slackened. He drooped
perceptibly. "Probably not," he said. "No, decidedly not."

Wilmer swore under his breath, and sat, brows bent, marvelling at the
change in him. The man's infirmity of will had blighted him. He was so
truly another creature that not even a woman's unreasoning championship
could pull him into shape again.

Mary Brinsley came swiftly down the path, trowel in one hand and her
basket of weeds in the other. Wilmer wondered if she had been glancing
up from some flowery screen and read the story of that altered posture.
She looked sharply anxious, like a mother whose child is threatened.
Jerome shrewdly knew that Marshby's telltale attitude was no unfamiliar
one.

"What have you