at he got up at six or half-past, wouldn't you?"

"If he went to bed at all," said Thorpe, with a grim smile.

"Anyhow, it proves something, doesn't it?" she persisted.

"Obviously. He is still in love with you, if that's what you want me to
say."

"That's just what I wanted you to say," she cried, her eyes sparkling.
"Poor George! He's a dear, and I don't care who hears me say it. If he'd
had any kind of a chance at all we wouldn't be--Oh, well, what's the use
talking about it?" She sighed deeply.

Braden watched her flushed, drawn face with frowning eyes. He realised
that she had suffered long in silence, that her heart had been wrung in
the bitter stretches of a thousand nights despite the gay indifference of
the thousand days that lay between them. For nearly three years she had
kept alive the hungry thing that gnawed at her heart and would not be
denied. He was sorry for her. She was better than most of the women he
knew in one respect if in no other: she was steadfast. She had made a
bargain and it was not her fault that it was not binding. He had but
little pity for George Tresslyn. The little he had was due to the belief
that if the boy had been older he would have fought a better fight for the
girl. As she lay there now, propped up against the pillows, he could not
help contrasting her with the splendid, high-bred daughter of Constance
Tresslyn. That she was a high-minded, honest, God-fearing girl he could
not for an instant doubt, but that she lacked the--there is but one word
for it--_class_ of the Tresslyn women he could not but feel as well as see.
There was a distinct line between them, a line that it would take
generations to cross. Still, she was a loyal, warm-hearted enduring
creature, and by qualities such as these she mounted to a much higher
plane than Anne Tresslyn could ever hope to attain, despite her position
on the opposite side of the line. He had never seen George's wife in
anything but a blithe, confident mood; she was an unbeaten little warrior
who kept her colours flying in the face of a despot called Fate. In fact,
she was worthy of a better man than young Tresslyn, worthy of the steel of
a nobler foe than his mother.

He was eager to comfort her. "It is pretty fine of George, sending you
these flowers every day. I am getting a new light on him. Has he ever
suggested to you in any way the possibility of--of--well, you know what I
mean?"

"Fixing it up again between us?" she supplied