she said emphatically, "when you want to stage that
sorta party stay away from liquor, and when you want to get tight stay
away from bedrooms."
"I'll remember."
He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of an
all-night restaurant.
"Is Alec a great friend of yours?" asked Jill as they perched themselves
on high stools inside, and set their elbows on the dingy counter.
"He used to be. He probably won't want to be any more--and never
understand why."
"It was sorta crazy you takin' all that blame. Is he pretty important?
Kinda more important than you are?"
Amory laughed.
"That remains to be seen," he answered. "That's the question."
*****
THE COLLAPSE OF SEVERAL PILLARS
Two days later back in New York Amory found in a newspaper what he
had been searching for--a dozen lines which announced to whom it might
concern that Mr. Amory Blaine, who "gave his address" as, etc., had been
requested to leave his hotel in Atlantic City because of entertaining in
his room a lady _not_ his wife.
Then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was a
longer paragraph of which the first words were:
"Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing the engagement of their
daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. Dawson Ryder, of Hartford, Connecticut--"
He dropped the paper and lay down on his bed with a frightened, sinking
sensation in the pit of his stomach. She was gone, definitely, finally
gone. Until now he had half unconsciously cherished the hope deep in his
heart that some day she would need him and send for him, cry that it had
been a mistake, that her heart ached only for the pain she had caused
him. Never again could he find even the sombre luxury of wanting
her--not this Rosalind, harder, older--nor any beaten, broken woman that
his imagination brought to the door of his forties--Amory had wanted her
youth, the fresh radiance of her mind and body, the stuff that she was
selling now once and for all. So far as he was concerned, young Rosalind
was dead.
A day later came a crisp, terse letter from Mr. Barton in Chicago, which
informed him that as three more street-car companies had gone into
the hands of receivers he could expect for the present no further
remittances. Last of all, on a dazed Sunday night, a telegram told him
of Monsignor Darcy's sudden death in Philadelphia five days before.
He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains of the
room in
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