ith joy." She
yawned. "Well, I'm off to bed."

He roused himself.

"A happy New-year, my dear."

"Thanks," she said, and wandered out, her absurd feathered tail trailing
behind her.

He lay back and closed his eyes. So Audrey had done that, Audrey, who
had been in his mind all those sleepless hours; for he knew now that
back of all his resolutions to do better had been the thought of her.

He felt disappointed and bitter. The sad disillusion of the middle
years, still heroically clinging to faiths that one after another
destroyed themselves, was his.

CHAPTER XVIII

Audrey was frightened. She did not care a penny's worth what her little
world thought. Indeed, she knew that she had given it a new thrill and
so had won its enthusiastic approval. She was afraid of what Clayton
would think.

She was absurdly quiet and virtuous all the next day, gathered out her
stockings and mended them; began a personal expenditure account for the
New-year, heading it carefully with "darning silk, 50 cents"; wrote a
long letter to Chris, and--listened for the telephone. If only he would
call her, so she could explain. Still, what could she explain? She had
done it. It was water over the dam--and it is no fault of Audrey's that
she would probably have spelled it "damn."

By noon she was fairly abject. She did not analyze her own anxiety, or
why the recollection of her escapade, which would a short time before
have filled her with a sort of unholy joy, now turned her sick and
trembling.

Then, in the middle of the afternoon, Clay called her up. She gasped a
little when she heard his voice.

"I wanted to tell you, Audrey," he said, "that we can probably use the
girl you spoke about, rather soon."

"Very well. Thank you. Is--wasn't there something else, too?"

"Something else?"

"You are angry, aren't you?"

He hesitated.

"Surprised. Not angry. I haven't any possible right to be angry."

"Will you come up and let me tell you about it, Clay?"

"I don't see how that will help any."

"It will help me."

He laughed at that; her new humility was so unlike her.

"Why, of course I'll come, Audrey," he said, and as he rang off he was
happier than he had been all day.

He was coming. Audrey moved around the little room, adjusting chairs,
rearranging the flowers that had poured in on New-year's day, brushing
the hearth. And as she worked she whistled. He would be getting into the
car now. He would be so far on his w