p and
in the light of it had spoken, as every man does to another who is
his friend, in an open yet casual way about his life with Sally.

"She lives with me," he had admitted. "If you'd rather not meet her,
say so. If you'd like to, don't look down on her--I don't suppose
you would, but I never trust the virtue of the married man, he's
compelled to wear it on his sleeve. Anyhow, she's the best. I've never
met any woman for whom I'd so readily contemplate the ghastly
ceremony of marriage. But I suppose every one lays hold of what he
can take. I'm absolutely satisfied as I am. The strange woman has
no fascination for me now."

Two years and a half had passed since Traill had said that. Now
Devenish had dropped in again for the third or fourth time and found
them, still together, but with a vague and subtle difference upon
it all, to which his astute mind had assigned the reason which Sally
only, beside himself, was aware of. Traill was tiring. If Devenish
did not know it instinctively, then he made his deductions from the
fact alone that brought about the mentioning of the name of Coralie
Standish-Roe. To him, with his own social knowledge of that young
lady, the fact in itself was sufficient.

By the time that Traill was ready, Sally came down prepared to go
out. They all descended the stairs together, parting in the street,
where Traill held Sally's hand affectionately, then called a hansom
and drove away.

With apparently casual glances, Devenish watched Sally's face as she
looked after the departing cab. She followed it with her eyes as they
walked up into the Circus; followed it until it welded into the mass
of traffic and was lost from sight.

"Where shall we go?" he asked, when her features relaxed from their
strain of momentary interest.

"Really, I don't mind," she replied indifferently.

He mentioned the restaurant in Soho. She shook her head definitely.

"Not there?"

"No, anywhere but there. I don't--" she hesitated.

"You don't care for the place?"

"Oh yes, I do. But--"

"Well, then--" He mentioned another and she agreed to anything rather
than that which held so many happy associations.

When they were seated at their table, he leant back in his chair and
looked at her pleasurably.

"You know, it's mighty good of you," he said, "to keep me company
like this."

She was too impervious to outer sensation then to find repugnance
at the tone of his voice; at another time she might have rese