e had boasted to
some of her friends, and particularly to Marietta, in a friendly,
jesting way that she could wind Eugene around her little finger. He was
so easy-going in the main, so quiet. Here he was a raging demon almost,
possessed of an evil spirit of desire and tearing up his and hers and
Suzanne's life for that matter, by the roots. She did not care for
Suzanne, though, now, or Mrs. Dale. Her own blighted life, and Eugene's,
looming so straight ahead of her terrified her.

"What do you suppose Mr. Colfax will do when he hears of this?" she
asked desperately, hoping to frighten him.

"I don't care a damn what Mr. Colfax will or can do!" he replied
sententiously. "I don't care a damn what anybody does or says or thinks.
I love Suzanne Dale. She loves me. She wants me. There's an end of that.
I'm going to her now. You stay me if you can."

Suzanne Dale! Suzanne Dale! How that name enraged and frightened Angela!
Never before had she witnessed quite so clearly the power of beauty.
Suzanne Dale was young and beautiful. She was looking at her only
tonight thinking how fascinating she was--how fair her face--and here
was Eugene bewitched by it, completely undone. Oh, the terror of beauty!
The terror of social life generally! Why had she entertained? Why become
friendly with the Dales? But then there were other personalities, almost
as lovely and quite as young--Marjorie McLennan, Florence Reel,
Henrietta Tenman, Annette Kean. It might have been any one of these. She
couldn't have been expected to shut out all young women from Eugene's
life. No; it was Eugene. It was his attitude toward life. His craze
about the beautiful, particularly in women. She could see it now. He
really was not strong enough. Beauty would always upset him at critical
moments. She had seen it in relation to herself--the beauty of her form,
which he admired so, or had admired. "God," she prayed silently, "give
me wisdom now. Give me strength. I don't deserve it, but help me. Help
me to save him. Help me to save myself."

"Oh, Eugene," she said aloud, hopelessly, "I wish you would stop and
think. I wish you would let Suzanne go her way in the morning, and you
stay sane and calm. I won't care about myself. I can forgive and forget.
I'll promise you I'll never mention it. If a child comes, I'll do my
best not to let it annoy you. I'll try yet not to have one. It may not
be too late. I'll change from this day forth. Oh!" She began to cry.

"No! By