Charing Cross for the Continent, and they walked back to her
rooms together.

"So you are really going home to Feldwick, Joan?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Yes. Since I left it I have done nothing but make mistakes. I think
that the old life is best for me."

He glanced at her curiously a moment or two later as they crossed the
street. She had grown older during the last few months, and there were
streaks of grey in her hair. Yet the lines in her face were softer, the
narrowness and suspicion were smoothed away; her eyes were still keen,
but with a kindlier light. At her door, where he parted from her, she
looked away across his shoulder.

"It is a wonderful city, this, Douglas," she said. "It has made a great
man of you and a happy woman of Cissy."

"And you?" he asked gently.

"Well, it has taught me a little tolerance, I think," she said. "You
know we Strongs are hill folk, our loves and hates are lasting and
perhaps narrow. I have been a mistaken woman, but I have much to be
thankful for. I came to my senses before any one was made to suffer
through me. So now, good night, and good-by, Douglas. You bear me no
ill-will, I know?"

"Not a shred," he answered, taking her hand into his. "You will miss
Cissy, I am afraid."

She sighed, and he saw something in her eyes which haunted him for long
afterwards.

"Some of us," she said, "are born to be lonely--to see those whom we
care for drift away. There's no help for it, I'm afraid. So good-by,
Douglas, and good fortune to you."

The door closed sharply upon her sob. Douglas walked slowly away
westwards.

CHAPTER XL

A CALL BEFORE THE CURTAIN

They passed out from the stuffy atmosphere of the dimly-lit theatre to
the sunlit squares and streets, Drexley and Douglas arm in arm, the
former voluble, Douglas curiously silent. For it had been an afternoon
of events, the final rehearsal of a play of which great things were
expected, and which was to take London by storm. Drexley had always had
faith in his friend. He believed him to be a clever, even a brilliant,
writer--witty, original, unique in his own vivid and picturesque style.
But even Drexley had never believed him capable of such work as this.
Without the accessories of costume, and lights, and continuity, the
story which flashed out into the shadows of the dark and empty stalls
from the lips of those human puppets, wholly fascinated and completely
absorbed him. Douglas had forsaken all traditions. H