but from that episode when he fled to Hamilton from his lunch
with her had sprung the root of every succeeding chapter of tragedy--and
for her he had lost Marcia! Then he led her to a place of vantage and
went to the keyboard.

Never had Paul Burton played like that before, for as the music swelled
and pealed through the place, his heart was singing its swan song. In a
moment of manhood beyond his moral stature he had drawn back arms that
were hungry for her--and he now knew, too late, that there was no one
else who counted. But the organ was not so repressive, and as she
listened she knew that the tragedy was not hers alone. While his
fingers strayed to the improvising of his yearning and despair the woman
sat spellbound, and finally he swung into that tritest of time-worn
airs, "Home, Sweet Home."

A gasp came into Marcia's throat.

As Paul Burton left his seat and came down to her, his face was drawn
and he said bluntly, "_She_ is here today."

She did not have to ask details or if it was ended. The music had told
her everything. In a sudden gust of feeling and wrath against this woman
who had stood between her and happiness, she wanted to say bitter
things--but she only nodded.

"Now that matters have turned out as they have," the man spoke
deliberately, but tensely, "I sha'n't see you again. Now that I'm a
bankrupt and it's all over, Marcia, I want you to know that I love
you--that I love you without doubt or hesitation. In this world and
whatever other worlds there are, there is only you ... you whom I lost
because the coward _must_ lose every good thing life holds." He broke
off and asked very humbly, "Just in farewell--may I kiss you--once
more?"

With a torrent of sobs she came into his arms. "From the first," she
declared, "I've been just yours. I've never thought of myself except as
yours. Take me! Poverty doesn't frighten me. I've known it too
long--it's almost like an old friend. Let's fight our way back
together."

There are moments which turn mice into lions and make heroes of the
craven. Unfortunately they are apt to be ephemeral. Paul Burton shook
his head as he looked into her eyes, and answered with an unwonted
resolution.

"No," he said bitterly, "not now. Now I'm a bum."

"You needn't be. You are young. You have genius. We can win out yet--and
win out big--and win out together."

His lips twisted in a pallid smile of self-derision.

"At all events for once I know myself. If I ever bec