e immemorial in art and poetry.

"Please," begged Rudolph, trying with his left hand to loosen her grip.
"Please, that hurts."

For a second they stood close, their fingers interlacing. With a touch
of contempt, he found that she still trembled, and drew short breath.
Her eyes slowly gathered his meaning.

"Oh, that!" She tore her hand loose, as though burned. "That! It _was_
all true, then. I forgot."

She caught aside her skirts angrily, and started forward in all her
former disdain. But this, after their brief alliance, was not to be
tolerated.

"What was all true?" he insisted. "You shall not treat me so. If anybody
has a right--"

After several paces, she flashed about at him in a whirl of words:--

"All alike, every one of you! And I was fool enough to think you were
different!" The conflict in her eyes showed real, beyond suspicion. "He
told me all about it. Last evening. And you dare talk of rights, and
come following me here--"

"Lucky I did," retorted Rudolph, with sudden spirit; and holding out his
wounded arm, indignantly: "That scratch, if you know how it came--"

"I know, perfectly." She stared as at some crowning impudence. "He was
chicken-hearted. You came off cheaply.--I know all you said. But the one
thing I'll never understand, is where you found the courage, after he
struck you, at the club. You'll always have _that_ to admire!"

"After he struck"--A light broke in on Rudolph, somehow. "Chantel? Oh,
that liar!"

He wheeled and started to go back.

"Wait, stop!" she called, in a strangely altered voice, which brought
him up short. "They're all with him now. You can't--What did you mean?"

He explained, sulkily at first, but ending in a kind of generous rage.
"So I couldn't even stand up to him. And except for Maurice Heywood--Oh,
you need not frown; he's the best friend I ever had."

Mrs. Forrester had walked on, with the same cloudy aspect, the same
light, impatient step. He felt the greater surprise when, suddenly
turning, she raised toward him her odd, enticing, pointed face, and the
friendly mischief of her eyes.

"The best?" she echoed, in the same half-whisper as when she had
flattered him, that afternoon in the dusky well of the pagoda stairway.
"The very best friend? Don't you think you have a better?"

Rudolph stared.

"Oh, you funny, funny boy!" she cried, with a bewildering laugh, of
delight and pride. "I hate people all prim and circumspect, and
you--You'd have flown