too, if you want it," he said, for he had
recovered his speech. "Tell me what the trouble is. If I can, I will
take you out of it."

It was rather an odd speech, and she was struck by the turn of the
phrase, which expressed more strength than doubt of power to do anything
he undertook.

"I believe you could," she said, looking at him. "You are so strong. You
could do anything."

"Things are never so hard as they look, if one is willing to risk
everything," he answered. "And when one has nothing to lose," he added,
as an after-thought.

She sighed, and turned away again, half satisfied.

"There is nothing to risk," she said. "It is not a case of danger. And
you cannot take my trouble and tear it up like a pack of cards with
those hands of yours. I wish you could. I am unhappy--yes, I have told
you so. But what can you do to help me? You cannot make my surroundings
what they are not, you know."

"No--I cannot change your husband," said Griggs.

She started a little, but still looked away.

"No. You cannot make him love me," she said, softly and sadly.

The big hands lost their hold on one another, and the deep eyes opened a
little wider. But she was not watching him.

"Do you mean to say--" He stopped.

She slowly bent her head twice, but said nothing.

"Reanda does not love you?" he said, in wondering interrogation. "Why--I
thought--" He hesitated.

"He cares no more for me than--that!" The hand that stretched towards
him across the open piano tapped the polished wood once, and sharply.

"Are you in serious earnest?" asked Griggs, bending forward, as though
to catch her first look when she should turn.

"Does any one jest about such things?" He could just see that her lips
curled a little as she spoke.

"And you--you love him still?" he asked, with pressing voice.

"Yes--I love him. The more fool I."

The words did not grate on him, as they would have jarred on her
husband's ear. The myth he had imagined made perfections of the woman's
faults.

"It is a pity," he said, resting his forehead in his hand. "It is a
deadly pity."

Then she turned at last and saw his attitude.

"You see," she said. "There is nothing to be done. Is there? You know my
story now. I have married a man I worship, and he does not care for me.
Take it and twist it as you may, it comes to that and nothing else. You
can pity me, but you cannot help me. I must bear it as well as I can,
and as long as I must. It will end some