replied dubiously.

"I want to talk to you of them," he answered. "Dan has left me. You know
that?"

"Yes; I know of it."

"And you think he has done quite the fine thing about it--it was what
you would have had him do?"

"Yes, certainly. You practically told me you were putting him to the
test. You weren't embarrassed by his course in any way; you were able to
show him that you didn't care; you didn't need him."

"You saw that? You read that in what followed?"

"It was written so large that no one could miss it. You are the master.
You proved it again. I suppose you found a great satisfaction in that. A
man must, or he wouldn't do such things."

"You seem to understand," he replied, turning toward her for an instant.
"But there may be one thing you don't understand."

There was a moment of silence, in which they splashed on slowly through
the slush.

"I liked Dan; I was fond of him. And yet I deliberately planned to make
him do that kind of thing for me. I pulled him out of the newspaper
office and made it possible for him to study law, just that I might put
my hand on him when he could be useful. Please understand that I'm not
saying this in the hope that you will intercede to bring him back.
Nothing can bring him back. I wouldn't let him come back to me if he
would starve without my help."

Sylvia was silent; there was nothing with which she could meet this.

"What I mean is," he continued, "that I'm glad he shook me; I had
wondered from the beginning just when it would come, and when I saw his
things going out of my office, it satisfied something in me. I wonder
whether there's some good in me after all that made me glad in spite of
myself that he had the manhood to quit."

Bassett was a complex character; his talk and manner at Marian's ball
had given her a sense of this which he was now confirming. Success had
not brought him happiness; the loss of Dan had been a blow to him, and
she felt the friendlessness and isolation of this man whom men feared.
He had spoken doggedly, gruffly, and if she had marveled at their talk
at the dance, her wonder was the greater now. It was inconceivable that
Morton Bassett should come to her with his difficulties. If his
conscience troubled him, or if he was touched with remorse for his
conduct toward Dan Harwood, she was unable to see why he should make his
confession to her. It seemed that he had read her thoughts, for he spoke
roughly, as though defending himself