for them--if ever there had come a time in his history when he
was in the mood to put his feet on the table, that time was now.

He addressed his remarks to his late guests:

"You fragrant old he-goat, you will give orders to me, will you--you
are sure some diplomat--you poor old moth-eaten gander, with your
cow-like duplicity."

Mr. Driggs could not find the figure of speech which just suited the
case, but he was still trying.

"You poor old wall-eyed ostrich, with your head in the sand, thinking
no one can see you, you forget that there is a portion of your anatomy
admirably placed--indeed in my mind's eye I can see the sign upon it.
It reads 'Kick me.' It is an invitation I will not decline. He thinks
he can wipe our good friend Pearlie off the map by having her name
dropped from the Millford 'Mercury,' forgetting that there are other
ways of reaching the public eye. There are other publications, perhaps
not in the class with the Millford 'Mercury,' but worthy little sheets
too.

"There is the 'Evening Echo,' struggling along with a circulation of
a quarter of a million--it will answer our purpose admirably. I will
write the lead today while the lamp of inspiration burns, and I will
hear Pearl speak, and then oh, beloved, I will roll up my sleeves
and spit on my hands and do a sketch of the New Woman--Pearlie, my
child--this way lies fame."

CHAPTER IX

THE DOCTOR'S DECISION

When Pearl left him so abruptly, Dr. Clay found himself battling
with many emotions. His first impulse was to call her back--tell her
everything. Pearl was not a child--she would know what was best. It
was not fair to deceive her, and that was just what he had done, with
the best intentions.

But something held him back. The very heart of him was sick and full
of bitterness at the sudden slap which fate had given him. His soul
was still stinging with the pain of it. Everything was distorted and
queer, and in the confusion of sensations the outstanding one was the
instinct to hide all knowledge of his condition. No one must know. He
would go to see the old doctor and swear him to secrecy. After all,
his life was his own--he was under obligation to no one to stretch it
out miserably and uselessly.

He would go on as long as he could, and live it out triumphantly.
He would go out like Old Prince. He thought of the hymn which gives
thanks to God, "Who kindly lengthens out our days," and the thought
of it was mingled with somet