nd a fool."

"It is, of course, very rude to say you have behaved like a fool,
but--if you'll excuse my saying so--that is what has impressed me very
much. Don't you know," with a moderation, which singularly drove itself
home, "that if you had been kind to her, and had made her happy, you
could have had anything you wished for--without trouble?"

This was one of the unadorned facts which are like bullets. Disgustedly,
he found himself veering towards an outlook which forced him to admit
that there was probably truth in what she said, and he knew he heard
more truth as she went on.

"She would have wanted only what you wanted, and she would not have
asked much in return. She would not have asked as much as I should. What
you did was not businesslike." She paused a moment to give thought to
it. "You paid too high a price for the luxury of indulging the inherited
temperament. Your luxury was not to control it. But it was a bad
investment."

"The figure of speech is rather commercial," coldly.

"It is curious that most things are, as a rule. There is always the
parallel of profit and loss whether one sees it or not. The profits
are happiness and friendship--enjoyment of life and approbation. If the
inherited temperament supplies one with all one wants of such things, it
cannot be called a loss, of course."

"You think, however, that mine has not brought me much?"

"I do not know. It is you who know."

"Well," viciously, "there HAS been a sort of luxury in it in lashing out
with one's heels, and smashing things--and in knowing that people prefer
to keep clear."

She lifted her shoulders a little.

"Then perhaps it has paid."

"No," suddenly and fiercely, "damn it, it has not!"

And she actually made no reply to that.

"What do you mean to do?" he questioned as bluntly as before. He knew
she would understand what he meant.

"Not much. To see that Rosy is not unhappy any more. We can prevent
that. She was out of repair--as the house was. She is being rebuilt and
decorated. She knows that she will be taken care of."

"I know her better than you do," with a laugh. "She will not go away.
She is too frightened of the row it would make--of what I should say. I
should have plenty to say. I can make her shake in her shoes."

Betty let her eyes rest full upon him, and he saw that she was
softly summing him up--quite without prejudice, merely in interested
speculation upon the workings of type.

"You are lettin