the
lights.

Voices floated up from the front hall: the great entrance door closed,
the motors wheeled away. The guests were gone--Chris was gone. Norma
heard old Mrs. Melrose come upstairs, heard her door shut, then there
was silence.

Silence. Eleven struck from Madison Tower; midnight struck. Even the
streets were quieter now. The squares of moonlight shifted on Norma's
floor, went away. The fire died down, the big room was warm, and dim,
and very still.

Hugged in her warm wrap, curled into her big chair, the girl sat like
some tranced creature, thinking--thinking--thinking.

At first her thoughts were of terror and shame. In what fool's paradise
had she been drifting, she asked herself contemptuously, that she and
Chris, reasonable, right-thinking man and woman, could be reduced to
this fearful and wretched position, could even consider--even name--what
their sane senses must shrink from in utter horror! Norma was but
twenty-two, but she knew that there was only one end to that road.

So that way was closed, even to the brimming tide that rose up in her
when she thought of it, and flooded her whole being with the ecstatic
realization of her love for Chris, and of what surrender to him would
mean.

That way was closed. She must tell herself over and over. For her own
sake, for the sake of Aunt Kate and Aunt Marianna, for Rose even, she
must not think of that. Above all, for his sake--for Chris, the fine,
good, self-sacrificing Chris of her first friendship, she must be
strong.

And Norma, at this point in her circling and confused thoughts, would
drop her face in the crook of her bent arm, and the tears would brim
over again and again. She was not strong. She could not be strong. And
she was afraid.

CHAPTER XXIII

Regina, coming through the hallway at seven o'clock, was amazed to
encounter Miss Sheridan, evidently fresh from a bath, a black hat tipped
over her smiling eyes, and her big fur coat belted about her. Norma's
vigil had lasted until after two o'clock, but then she had had four
hours of restful sleep, for she knew that she had found the way.

She left a message with Regina for Mrs. Melrose; she was going to Mrs.
Sheridan's, and would telephone in a day or two. Smiling, she slipped
out into the quiet street, where the autumn sunlight was just beginning
to strike across the damp pavements, and smilingly she disappeared into
the great currents of men and women who were already pouring to