ink of him? Here he was protesting right along that he loved her, that
he was happy and satisfied to live with her, that he was not interested
in any of these other women whom she knew to be interested in him and of
whom she was inordinately jealous, that he had always loved her and her
only, and yet here were these letters suddenly come to light, giving the
lie to all these protestations and asseverations--making him look like
the coward, the blackguard, the moral thief that he knew himself to be.
To be dragged out of the friendly darkness of lack of knowledge and
understanding on her part and set forth under the clear white light of
positive proof--he stared helplessly, his nerves trembling, his brain
aching, for truly he was in no condition for an emotional argument.

And yet Angela was crying now. She had walked away from him and was
leaning against the mantel-piece sobbing as if her heart would break.
There was a real convincing ache in the sound--the vibration expressing
the sense of loss and defeat and despair which she felt. He was staring
at the box wondering why he had been such an idiot as to leave them in
his trunk, to have saved them at all.

"Well, I don't know that there is anything to say to that," he observed
finally, strolling over to where she was. There wasn't anything that he
could say--that he knew. He was terribly sorry--sorry for her, sorry for
himself. "Did you read them all?" he asked, curiously.

She nodded her head in the affirmative.

"Well, I didn't care so much for Christina Channing," he observed,
deprecatingly. He wanted to say something, anything which would relieve
her depressed mood. He knew it couldn't be much. If he could only make
her believe that there wasn't anything vital in either of these affairs,
that his interests and protestations had been of a light, philandering
character. Still the Ruby Kenny letter showed that she cared for him
desperately. He could not say anything against Ruby.

Angela caught the name of Christina Channing clearly. It seared itself
in her brain. She recalled now that it was she of whom she had heard him
speak in a complimentary way from time to time. He had told in studios
of what a lovely voice she had, what a charming platform presence she
had, how she could sing so feelingly, how intelligently she looked upon
life, how good looking she was, how she was coming back to grand opera
some day. And he had been in the mountains with her--had made love