hought
she would be left free."

"Free for what?" he demanded.

"To live."

"When love and marriage and children are all there is to life?" he
asked.

She caught her breath.

"You see, she did not know that then. She thought all those things
called for the sacrifice of her freedom."

"What freedom?" he demanded again. "It's when we're alone that we're
slaves--slaves to ourselves. A woman alone, a man alone, living to
himself alone--what is there for him? He can only go around and around
in a pitifully small circle--a circle that grows smaller and smaller
with every year. Between twenty and thirty a man can exhaust all there
is in life for himself alone. He has eaten and slept and traveled and
played until his senses have become dull. Perhaps a woman lasts a
little longer, but not much longer. Then they are locked away in
themselves until they die."

"Peter!" she cried in terror.

"It's only as we live in others that we live forever," he ran on. "It
is only by toiling and sacrificing and suffering and loving that we
become immortal. It is so we acquire real freedom."

"Yes, Peter," she agreed, with a gasp.

"Could n't you make her understand that?"

"She does understand. That's the pity of it."

"And Covington?"

"It's in him to understand; only--she lost the right to make him
understand. She--she debased herself. So she must sacrifice herself
to get clean again. She must make even greater sacrifices than any she
cowed away from. She must do this without any of the compensations
that come to those who have been honest and unafraid."

"What of him?"

"He must never know. He'll go round and round his little circle, and
she must watch him."

"It's terrible," he murmured. "It will be terrible for her to watch
him do that. If you had told him how she felt--"

"God forbid!"

"Or if you had only told me, so that I could have told him--"

She seized Peter's arm.

"You would n't have dared!"

"I'd dare anything to save two people from such torment."

"You--you don't think he will worry?"

"I think he is worrying a great deal."

"Only for the moment," she broke in. "But soon--in a week or two--he
will be quite himself again. He has a great many things to do. He has
tennis and--and golf."

She checked herself abruptly. ("Damn golf!" Monte had said.)

"There's too much of a man in him now to be satisfied with such
things," said Peter. "It's a pity--it's a pity there are not