at she saw him close at hand, he looked
much older. And his face was grievously lined, deteriorated.

She tried to thank him, to express her gratitude for the way he had
extricated them from a great difficulty; but her words were so
hesitating and frigid that the manager broke in, shaking him warmly by
the hand.

Delacour bowed his thanks, murmured something conventional, and was
gone.

Every one was in a hurry to go, too. Marion remained a moment longer
talking to the manager, and then they went together through the royal
box to the private entrance, where her brougham was waiting. Just as
they reached it, he was called away, and an attendant let her out.

Waiting beside her brougham, in the rain, holding the door for her, was
Delacour, in a shabby overcoat, his hat in his hand.

Again their eyes met in a long look. His, sombre, melancholy, humble,
had a great appeal in them.

She seemed encased in some steel armour, which made movement and speech
wellnigh impossible. She thanked him inaudibly.

He shut the door, said "Home" to the coachman, and turned away.

The carriage drove off.

Then something in Marion snapped. Her other self, the poor woman in her
whom she had denied and starved and brow-beaten, pounced upon her and
called out suddenly, desperately:

"Forgive him. What is life without him? Think of the last ten years. Has
there been one day in all those grinding years when you have not longed
to see him? Has there ever been one day when you would not have given up
your ease and luxury for a cottage with him? And now he has come back
into your life. He still loves you. Are you going to lose him again? You
were vindictive, and you know it. Go back now and kneel down in the wet
street and ask him to forgive you. Quick! quick!--before it is too
late."

The other woman in her, the woman who had discarded him, stopped her
ears.

"No, no; I had good reasons for breaking with him. They hold as good
to-day as ten years ago."

"Very well," said the other scornfully. "Then never dare to tell
yourself again that you ever loved him. Let that lie cease. Your love
was only pretty words and pride and self-seeking, and a miserable streak
of passion. What do you care what happens to him? Don't go back. You
don't care for him. You never cared. Never, never. And he knows it. He
is telling himself so now--at this moment."

She stopped the brougham. She trembled so much that she could hardly
tell the man to drive b