he was no longer Sylvia Planter, that in defeating you she had
destroyed herself? If that is so, she has every bit of sympathy I'm
capable of, and we must think first of all of her. The pride's still
there, but quite a different thing. She's never known fear before,
George, and now she's afraid, terribly afraid, most of all, I think, of
herself."

George counted the corners, was relieved when beyond Fiftieth Street the
traffic thinned and they went faster. He took Betty's hand, and found
that the touch steadied and encouraged, because at last her fingers
seemed to reach his mind again.

"Betty! Do you think she cares at all?"

"I'm prejudiced," Betty laughed, "but I think the harder she'd been the
more she's cared; but she wouldn't talk about you except to say she
would see you for a minute this once. Lambert's lunching with Dolly."

"We are conspirators," George said, "and I don't like it, but I must see
her once."

They drew up at the curb, got out, and entered the hall. The house was
peculiarly without sound. George glanced at the entrance to the room
where he had found Sylvia last night.

"I think she's in Mr. Planter's study," Betty said. "He hasn't come
downstairs yet."

She led him through the library to a small, square room--a quiet and
comfortable book-lined retreat where Old Planter had been accustomed to
supplement his work down town. George looked eagerly around, but the
light wasn't very good, and he didn't at first see Sylvia.

"Sylvia!" Betty called softly. "I've brought George."

XXI

Almost before George realized it Betty was gone and the door was closed.

"Sylvia!"

Her low voice reached him from a large chair opposite the single,
leaded, opaque window.

"I'm over here----"

Yes, there was fear in her enunciation, as if she groped through shadowy
and hazardous places. It cautioned him. With a choked feeling, a racking
effort after repression, he walked quietly around and stared down at
her.

She looked up once quickly, then glanced away. He was grateful for her
colour, but the fear was in her face, too, and the pride, as Betty had
said, but a transformed pride that he couldn't quite understand. She lay
back in the large chair, her head to one side resting against the
protruding arm. Her eyes were bright with tears she had shed or wanted
to shed.

"Please sit down."

The ring of exasperated contempt and challenge had gone from her voice.
He hadn't known it could stir him so. He