zed it as unworthy of her. Furthermore, it led
to an extremely dangerous deduction--namely, that her interest, after
all, was not entirely impersonal; for if it were what difference did
one woman or twenty other women make in her relations with him? To
put the matter bluntly, she was acting exactly as if she were in love
with him herself!

When Miss Winthrop faced that astounding fact she felt exactly as if
her heart stopped beating for a full minute. Then it started again as
if trying to make up for the lapse in a couple of breaths. She gasped
for breath and, throwing off the bedclothes, jumped up and lighted the
gas. Here was something to be met in the light. But, as soon as she
caught sight of her flushed cheeks and her staring eyes, she hurriedly
turned out the gas again and climbed back into bed. Here she lay like
some trapped thing, panting and helpless. Over and over again she
whispered, "I'm not! I'm not!" as if some one were bending over her
and taunting her with the statement. Then she whispered, "It isn't
true! Oh, it isn't true!" She denied it fiercely--vehemently. She
threw an arm over her eyes even there in the dark.

It was such an absurd accusation! If she had been one of those silly,
helpless creatures with nothing else to do in life but fall in love,
it might have had some point; but here she was, a self-respecting,
self-supporting girl who had seen enough of men to know distinctly
better than to do anything so foolish. It had been the confidence born
of this knowledge that had allowed her from the start to take an
impersonal interest in the man. And the proof of this was that she had
so conducted herself that he had not fallen in love with her.

Then what in the world was she crying about and making such a fuss
about? She asked herself that, and, with her lips firm together,
determined that the best answer was to do no more crying and make no
more fuss. So she settled back again upon her pig-tails, and stared at
the ceiling and stared at the ceiling and stared at the ceiling.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SENSIBLE THING

When Miss Winthrop rose the next morning, she scarcely recognized the
woman she saw in the glass as the woman she had glimpsed for a second
last night when she had risen and lighted the gas. Her cheeks were
somewhat paler than usual, and her eyes were dull and tired. She
turned from the glass as soon as possible, and donned a freshly
laundered shirt-waist. Then she swallowed a cup