she is beautiful. She is the most beautiful
woman I have ever seen in all my life. Her face is as exquisite as
if chiselled in marble, and you never saw such eyes. And she wears
that veil all the time."

Anthony Dexter's cold fingers were forced to drum on the table with
apparent carelessness. Yes, he knew she was beautiful. He had not
forgotten it for an instant since she had thrown back her veil and
faced him. "Did--did she tell you why?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Ralph. "She told me why."

A sword, suspended by a single hair, seemed swaying uncertainly over
Anthony Dexter's head--a two-edged sword, sure to strike mercilessly
if it fell. Ralph's eyes were upon him, but not in contempt. God,
in His infinite pity, had made them kind.

"Father," said Ralph, again, "she would not tell the name of the man,
though I begged her to." Anthony Dexter's heart began to beat again,
slowly at first, then with a sudden and unbearable swiftness. The
blood thundered in his ears like the roar of a cataract. He could
hardly hear what Ralph was saying.

"It was in a laboratory," the boy continued, though the words were
almost lost. "She was there with the man she loved and whom she was
pledged to marry. He was trying a new experiment, and she was
watching. While he was leaning over the retort to put in another
chemical, she heard the mass seethe, and pushed him away, just in
time to save him.

"There was an explosion, and she was terribly burned. He was not
touched, mind you--she had saved him. They took her to the hospital,
and wrapped her in bandages. He went there only once. There was
another girl there, named Evelyn Grey, who was so badly burned that
every feature was destroyed. The two names became confused, and a
mistake was made. They told him she would be disfigured for life,
and so he went away."

The walls of the room swayed as though they were of fabric. The
floor undulated; his chair rocked dizzily. Out of the accusing
silence, Thorpe's words leaped to mock him:

_The honour of the spoken word still holds him. He asked her to
marry him and she consented . . . he was never released from his
promise . . . did not even ask for it. He slunk away like a
cur . . . sometimes I think there is no sin but shirking. . . I can
excuse a liar . . . I can pardon a thief . . . I can pity a
murderer . . . but a shirk, no_.

"Father," Ralph was saying, "you do not seem to understand. I
suppose it is diff