Thanks. I merely wished to find out if you would still perjure
yourself. To answer your question, I really don't know."

"Bess!" The man was upon his feet, his face twitching. "I'll stand a lot
from you, but there's a limit--"

"Sit down, please," evenly. "It's wasted absolutely. There's not a soul
but myself to see; and I'm not looking. Please be seated."

From his height the man looked down at her; at first angrily,
resentfully--then with an expression wherein surprise and unbelief were
mingled. He sat down.

The girl's eyes left the dot on the horizon, moved on and on.

"As I was saying," she continued, "I don't know. I'd give my soul, if I
have one, to know; but I have no one with whom to make the exchange, no
one who can give me light. Does that answer your question?"

Her companion stared at her, and forgot himself.

"Yes, it answers the now. But why did you marry him?"

"You really wish to know?" Again the lips were twitching.

"Yes."

"You're very hungry for compliments. You yourself are why."

No answer, only silence.

"You've seen a coursing, haven't you?" wandered on the girl. "A little
tired rabbit with a great mongrel pack in pursuit? You're not plural,
but nevertheless you personified that pack. You and the unknown things
you represented were pressing me close. I was confused and afraid. I was
a babe four months ago. I was not afraid of How, I had loved him--at
least I thought I had, I'm sure of nothing now--and, as I say, I was
afraid of you--then."

"And now--"

Just for a second the girl glanced at the questioner, then she looked
away.

"I'm not in the least afraid of you now--or of anything."

"Not even of your husband?"

"No," unemotionally. "I leave that to you."

Again the man's face twitched, but he was silent.

"I said afraid of nothing," retracted the girl swiftly. "I made a
mistake." Of a sudden her face grew old and tense. "I am afraid of
something; horribly afraid. I'm as afraid, as you are of death, of this
infinite eventless monotony." She bit her lip deep, unconsciously. "I
sometimes think the old fear of everything were preferable, were the
lesser of the two evils."

Just perceptibly the figure of the man grew alert. The loose skin under
his eyes drew tight as the lids partially closed.

"You've been a bit slow about it, Bess," he said, "but I think you've
gotten down to realities at last." He likewise looked away; but
unseeingly. The mind of Clayton Craig was no