of all--his condition
seemed unexplainable. Here was a man who never drank, who never overfed,
who smoked in moderation, whose life stood out conspicuously decent and
clean against the possibilities of his environment. What lay back of this
going to pieces? Doctor Dempsy had tried for a year to find out and had
failed. To Peter, it was not unexplainable at all--he knew. Possessed of a
constitution above the average, he had forced it to do the work of a mind
far above the average, while he had denied it one of the three necessities
of life and sanity. His will and reason had been powerless to help
him--and now?

Because he had hated himself for hiding this knowledge from the man who
had tried to do so much for him and wanted to make amends in some way--and
because it was the easiest thing, after all, to agree--he let Doctor
Dempsy pick out a sanitarium, make all arrangements, buy his ticket, and
see him off. He drew the line at being personally conducted, however.
Whether he went to a sanitarium or not did not matter; what mattered was
how long would he stay and where would he go afterward. Or would there be
an afterward? These were the questions that mulled through Peter's mind on
the train, and, coupled with the memory of the worried kindliness on
Doctor Dempsy's face, they were the only traveling companions Peter had.
It was not to be wondered, therefore, that as he left the car and boarded
the sanitarium omnibus he felt indescribably old, weary, and finished with
things.

At first he thought he was the only passenger, but as the driver leisurely
gathered up his reins and gave a cluck to the horses a girl's voice rang
out from the station, "Flanders--Flanders! Why, I believe you're
forgetting me." And the next instant the girl herself appeared, suitcase
in hand.

The driver grinned down a sheepish apology and Peter turned to hold the
door open. She stood framed in the doorway for a moment while she lifted
in her case, and for that moment Peter had conflicting impressions. He was
conscious of a modest, nun-like appearance of clothes; the traveling-suit
was gray, and the small gray hat had an encircling breast of white
feathers. The lips had a quiet, demure curve; but the chin was determined,
almost aggressive, while the gray eyes positively emitted sparks. The girl
was not beautiful, she was luminous--and all the gray clothing in the
world could not quench her. Peter found himself instantly wondering how
anything so