she?" he added eagerly as he laid a great
bunch of roses down on the table. "Is her headache better? Has not she
come down yet?"

He looked across the room to where his brother's grey head just showed
above the high carved back of his chair.

"Hilaire! Why don't you answer?"

In the silence that ensued he distinctly heard the ticking of the
clock on the mantelpiece and the falling of the soft wood ashes in the
grate; the beating of his own heart sounded loud to him. One of the
dogs was scratching at the door and whining to be let in.

"Hilaire."

"She is gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes. She left this letter for you."

"Ah, give it to me." He opened and read it hurriedly.

"I thought you meant dead at first," he said. His brown eyes had lost
the light that had been in them and were melancholy as before; he
stood still by the table looking down upon his roses. They would fade,
and she would never see them now. Never ... never ...

"Come and sit by the fire and let's talk it over quietly," said
Hilaire. "Oh, damn women," he mumbled as he drew at his pipe--the
fifth that morning. It was the first time in a week that he had
uttered his pet expletive. "What does she say?"

"You can read her letter."

"Would she mind?"

"Oh, no," Jean said bitterly. "She loves you--what she calls
loving--next best after me. She told me so."

Hilaire carefully smoothed the crumpled, blotted page out on his knee.

"MY DEAREST JEAN,--I am going away because I am a
coward. I dare not live with you, and I dare not ask you
to forgive me. Last night as I lay awake I thought and
thought about my feeling for you and I was sure that it
was love. I used to think of you often last summer and
to wonder where you were and what you were doing, and I
hoped you had not forgotten me. I did not love you then,
but I suppose my thoughts of you kept my heart's door
open for you, and certainly they helped to keep out
someone else who came and tried to get admittance. Oh,
one must suffer to keep love perfect, but isn't it worth
while? You may not believe me now when I say that if I
cared for you less I should stay, but it is true. Oh,
Jean, even when we were so happy for a few minutes
yesterday something in me looked beyond into the years
to come and was afraid. Not of you; I trust you,
dearest; but of the world. Men would stare at me and
laugh and whisper together, and women would l