had endured the agony of her discovery to the
breaking point. She had listened to his pretences, knowing them to be
lies, until she could endure it no longer. In following him she had
discovered nothing, and the change in his work would make the chase more
difficult. It was scarcely possible for anyone to follow him, for he
himself did not know where he would be from day to day. He would be
here, there, and everywhere. His sense of security as well as of his
unfairness made him sensitive about being nice in the unimportant
things. When he thought at all he was ashamed of what he was
doing--thoroughly ashamed. Like the drunkard he appeared to be mastered
by his weakness, and the psychology of his attitude is so best
interpreted. He caressed her sympathetically, for he thought from her
drawn, weary look that she was verging on some illness. She appeared to
him to be suffering from worry for him, overwork, or approaching malady.

But Eugene in spite of his unfaithfulness did sympathize with Angela
greatly. He appreciated her good qualities--her truthfulness, economy,
devotion and self-sacrifice in all things which related to him. He was
sorry that his own yearning for freedom crossed with her desire for
simple-minded devotion on his part. He could not love her as she wanted
him to, that he knew, and yet he was at times sorry for it, very. He
would look at her when she was not looking at him, admiring her
industry, her patience, her pretty figure, her geniality in the face of
many difficulties, and wish that she could have had a better fate than
to have met and married him.

Because of these feelings on his part for her he could not bear to see
her suffer. When she appeared to be ill he could not help drawing near
to her, wanting to know how she was, endeavoring to make her feel better
by those sympathetic, emotional demonstrations which he knew meant so
much to her. On this particular evening, noting the still drawn agony of
her face, he was moved to insist. "What's the matter with you,
Angelface, these days? You look so tired. You're not right. What's
troubling you?"

"Oh, nothing," replied Angela wearily.

"But I know there is," he replied. "You can't be feeling well. What's
ailing you? You're not like yourself at all. Won't you tell me, sweet?
What's the trouble?"

He was thinking because Angela said nothing that it must be a real
physical illness. Any emotional complaint vented itself quickly.

"Why should you c