cut away the foundation of
love. It would be fine and beautiful for us to start empty-handed and
build up together, if we were in sympathy and harmony. But, doubting
you--I can't."

Again he looked at her uneasily, suspicious, without knowing why or what.
But one thing was clear--to plead further with her would be
self-degradation. "I have been tactless," he said to her. "Probably, if I
were less in earnest, I should get on better. But, perhaps you will judge
me more fairly when you think it over. I'll say only one thing more. I
can't give up hope. It's about all I've got left--hope of you--belief in
you. I must cling to that. I'll go now, Janet."

She said nothing, simply looked unutterable melancholy, and let her hand
lie listlessly in his until he dropped it. He looked back at her when he
reached the door. She seemed so sad that he was about to return to her
side. She sighed heavily, gazed at him, and said, "Good-by, Arthur."
After that he had no alternative. He went. "I must wait until she is
calm," he said to himself. "She is so delicately strung."

As he was driving toward the hotel, his gloom in his face, he did not see
Mrs. Whitney dash past and give him an anxious searching glance, and sink
back in her carriage reassured somewhat. She had heard that he was on the
Chicago express--had heard it from her _masseuse_, who came each morning
before she was up. She had leaped to the telephone, had ordered a special
train, and had got herself into it and off for her Chicago home by
half-past eight. "That sentimental girl, full of high ideals--what mayn't
she do!" she was muttering, almost beside herself with anxiety. "No doubt
he'll try and induce her to run away with him." And the rushing train
seemed to creep and crawl.

She burst into the house like a dignified whirlwind. "Where's Miss
Janet?" she demanded of the butler.

"Still in the blue _salon_, ma'am, I think," he replied. "Mr. Arthur
Ranger just left a few moments ago."

Clearing her surface of all traces of agitation, Mrs. Whitney went into
the presence of her daughter. "Mamma!" cried Janet, starting up. "Has
anything happened?"

"Nothing, nothing, dear," replied her mother, kissing her tenderly. "I
was afraid my letter might have miscarried. And, when I heard that Arthur
had slipped away to Chicago, I came myself. I've brought you up so purely
and innocently that I became alarmed lest he might lead you into some
rash sentimentality. As I said in my l