as to the estimation in which he now held her. And she
understood that it was his pride, even more than his love, that
suffered.

She made no further attempt to explain or to exculpate herself; what
was the use? She knew that had they changed places, had Glenn been
in her shoes and she in his, her judgment had not been thus swift
and merciless. Her larger love would have understood, and pitied,
and forgiven. Pride! They talked of Pride, and they talked of Name.
But she could only feel that the one love she had ever known, or
perhaps ever was to know, was going from her, must go from her,
unforgiving, as if she had done it some irreparable wrong. She
looked from one wrathful, accusing face to the other, like a child
that has been beaten. How could Glenn, who had seemed to love her
so greatly, turn against her so instantly? Not even--Peter
Champneys--had looked at her as Glenn was looking at her now! And of
a sudden she felt cold, and old, and sad, and inexpressibly tired.
So this was what men were like, then! They always blamed. And they
never, never understood. She would not forget.

She checked the impulse to cry aloud to Glenn, to try once more to
make him understand. Her eyes darkened, and two bright spots burnt
in her cheeks. Without a further word or glance she walked out of
the room and left the two standing close together. So stepped Anne
Champneys into her womanhood.

She locked her door upon herself. Then she went over, after her
fashion, and stared at herself in her mirror. The herself staring
back at her startled her--the flushed cheeks, the mouth like coral,
the eyes glowing like jewels under straight black brows. The ropes
of red hair seemed alive, too; the whole figure radiated a
personality that could be dynamic, once its powers should be fully
aroused.

She viewed the woman in the glass impersonally, as if it had been a
stranger's face looking at her. That vivid creature couldn't be
Nancy Simms, not quite three years ago the Baxter slavey, the same
Nancy that Peter Champneys had shrunk from with aversion, and that
Glenn had repudiated to-night!

"Yes,--it's me," she murmured. "But I ain't--I mean I am not really
ugly any more. I'm--I don't know just _what_ I am--or whether I
ought to like or hate me--" But even while she shook her head, the
face in the glass changed; the mouth drooped, the color faded, the
light in the eyes went out. "But whatever I am, I'm not enough to
make anybody keep on lovi