nd Audrey gave her the occasional nod that was
all she needed. She thought,

"Does he know about her? Is he still fooled? She is almost beautiful.
Rodney is falling in love with her, probably. Does he know that? Will
he care terribly if he finds it out? She looks cold, but one can't tell,
and some men--has she a drop of honest, unselfish passion in her?"

She got up suddenly.

"Heavens, how late it is!" she said. "I must run on."

"Why not stay on to dinner? Graham is seldom home, and we can talk, if
Clay doesn't."

The temptation to see Clay again was strong in Audrey. But suddenly
she knew that she did not want to see them together, in the intimacy of
their home. She did not want to sit between them at dinner, and then go
away, leaving them there together. And something fundamentally honest in
her told her that she had no right to sit at their table.

"I'll come another time, if you'll ask me. Not to-day," she said. And
left rather precipitately. It hurt her, rather, to have Natalie, with an
impulsive gesture, gather the flowers out of a great jar and insist
on her carrying them home with her. It gave her a miserable sense of
playing unfairly.

She walked home. The fresh air, after Natalie's flower-scented,
overheated room, made her more rational. She knew where she stood,
anyhow. She was in love with Clayton Spencer. She had, she reflected
cynically, been in love before. A number of times before. She almost
laughed aloud. She had called those things love, those sickly romances,
those feeble emotions!

Then her eyes filled with unexpected tears. She had always wanted some
one to make her happy. Now she wanted to make some one happy. She cared
nothing for the cost. She would put herself out of it altogether. He
was not happy. Any one could see that. He had everything, but he was
not happy. If he belonged to her, she would live to make him happy. She
would--

Suddenly she remembered Chris. Perhaps she did not know how to hold a
man's love. She had not held him. He had protested that she was the
only woman he had ever loved, but all the time there had been that other
girl. How account for her, then?

"He did not think of me," she reflected defiantly, "I shall not think of
him."

She was ashamed of that instantly. After all, Chris was doing a man's
part now. She was no longer angry with him. She had written him that,
over and over, in the long letters she had made a point of sending him.
Only, she did not l