nied himself anything, do
under these circumstances? He threw his scruples to the winds and made
love in a feverish manner, regardless of the cost. Sylvia introduced him
to her parents, and he was made welcome by the hospitable and kindly old
people. At last he offered himself to Mr. Jackson as a husband for
Sylvia. But here he met with a check, for the old man had a strange
antipathy for artists; his capable, matter-of-fact business mind
mistrusted the emotional, and he firmly believed that artists were
governed by the emotions. He was willing that Custance should be a
friend; he refused him as Sylvia's husband.

Custance was prepared to accept this as an adverse judgment, and to bow
to Mr. Jackson's decision; for he was a man of honour. But, when he
announced his intention to Sylvia, she refused to accept it.

"By what right," she asked, "does my father take my happiness in his
hands? I can best judge the husband I need, and I refuse to give you up.
It is too late for him to interfere now."

"You must remember----," he began.

"I will remember nothing but that I love you, and that you have told me
you love me. That is the only thing that counts. You do love me,
Claude?" she answered.

"Love you! I worship you," he answered, "but your father has done so
much for you----."

"I grant that. There is no father like him. If he had stopped me in the
beginning I would have accepted his commands. Now it is too late. I
can't obey him now."

"I feel myself bound by honour----," he said.

"You are bound by honour to me. My father has no right to tell me who I
shall marry. I refuse to be treated as a child; I am a woman, capable of
choosing my own husband."

Thus did she urge him on against his better judgment, and one day they
were missing. For better or worse Sylvia Jackson was married to Claude
Custance, brilliant, erratic, a slave to morphia. For his sake she
forgot her duty to her parents, the love and kindness they had lavished
on her. The day that she left them a cloud came and rested over their
home. For her, marriage proved a cruel and bitter disillusionment, for
no woman can ever rival that deadly mistress, morphia.

The night before Sylvia's elopement, Desmond O'Connor had dined with the
Jacksons. Mr. Jackson had hoped to displace Custance with the handsome
young fellow whom he loved, and Sylvia had made use of Desmond to
conceal her infatuation for the artist. They had sat together out on the
verandah, and