."

As a wind may veer without warning, the current of Paul Burton's
emotions shifted. While wishing to deny and argue, he knew that what she
told him was true. He had entered the house with no thought of
love-making. Had she accepted his protestations at their face value, he
would have left it shaken with an agony of doubt and misgiving. After
all he had sworn his love first to Loraine. He had permitted her to
separate from her husband on the assumption that his own allegiance
would hold. Could a man truly love two women at the same time, he
wondered. Whatever he did he must appear a weak fool. The fact that this
phase of the matter presented itself for consideration at this time
proved only that it was Paul Burton who found himself in the situation.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted brokenly. "I know only that I
would like to be happy, if it's humanly possible, and I'd give anything
on earth to see you happy. At least you believe that much, dear, don't
you?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said, "I believe--that much."

Then after a few moments she continued seriously:

"We have been trusting ourselves on quicksands, Paul, and between us
we've done one wise thing. We've discovered it in time. Maybe it would
be still wiser now to be really frank for once and then to be very
careful afterwards."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"I divined your unhappiness, and I knew my own--for a long time I've
known my own. You have been petted and praised by women--women of that
world which was once mine. You say I love you. Do you know why--?" She
wheeled suddenly and spoke without disguise. "Not because you are a
great musician or a celebrity. It is because I realize how weak and
foolish and helpless you are." The man winced, but she went on steadily.
"In all woman-love there is a ruling element of mother-love. I wanted to
take you into my heart and make you happy, to ... to give you all a
woman can give a man."

He came forward and his words were unsteady.

"You can at least let me be your best and closest friend--"

"No. I doubt if men and women can really be friends. It comes to mean
too much--or too little."

"But, Marcia--"

Again she interrupted and again the voice was monotonous, almost
lifeless.

"No, dear. All our silly little jokes--things that have come to be dear
little traditions between us--would be mockeries now." She raised her
chin, and said suddenly, with a forced laugh: "I don't often have these
br