ir settled upon him.

That fact that Eleanor had broken faith with him, that she was willing to
renew her friendship with Harold Phipps when she knew what he was, that
she was willing to give up friends and family and her inheritance for the
sake of being with him, could have but one explanation.

Quin used to tell himself this again and again, as he lay in the hot
darkness with his hands clasped across his eyes. He used it as a whip
with which to scourge any vagrant hopes that dared creep into his heart.
Hadn't Miss Nell told him that she didn't care what he said or did, just
so he left her alone? Hadn't she let him come away without expressing a
regret for the past or a hope for the future?

But, even as his head condemned her, his heart rushed to her defense.
After all, she had never said she cared for him. And why should she care
for a fellow like him, with no education, or money, or position? Even
with her faults, she was too good for the best man living. But she cared
for Harold Phipps--and with that bitter thought the turmoil began all
over again.

He was not only unhappy, but intolerably lonely and ill. He missed Rose
and her care for him; he missed Cass's friendship; he missed his visits
to the Bartletts; and above all he missed his work. His interest still
clung to Bartlett & Bangs, and the only times of forgetfulness that he
had were when he and Dirks were discussing the business of the firm.

What made matters worse was the humid heat of the summer. A low
barometer, always an affliction to him, in his present nervous state was
torture. Night after night he lay gasping for breath, and in the morning
he rose gaunt and pale, with hollow rings under his eyes. Having little
desire for food, he often made one meal a day suffice, substituting
coffee for more solid food.

This method of living could have but one result. By the middle of July he
was confined to his bed with a heavy bronchial cold and a temperature
that boded ill. Once down and defenseless, he became a prey to all the
feminine solicitude of the rooming-house. The old lady next door pottered
in and out, putting mustard plasters on his chest and forgetting to take
them off, and feeding him nauseous concoctions that she brewed over a
coal-oil stove. A woman from upstairs insisted on keeping his window and
door wide open, and trying cold compresses on his throat. While the
majorful mother of six across the hall came in each night to sweep the
other