as himself again, as he
would be from that moment on.

"Don't fancy for a minute I mean to hurt you, or to make it harder for
you now," he said steadily; "but this is the end, you realize, the
turning of the ways--and I must be sure. You still can't give me an
answer, Elice?"

The girl did not look at him this time, did not stir.

"No, not even yet."

A pause, short this time.

"And you won't reconsider about going to work for a living, won't let me
help, as a friend, merely as a friend? You know me too well to
misunderstand this. It would mean nothing absolutely to me now to help,
and would not alter our friendship, if you wish, in the least. Won't you
let me do this trifle for you if I ask it?"

Resolutely the girl shook her head, very steadily.

"I understand and appreciate," she said; "but I can't."

A moment longer the man waited. He extended his hand. "There's nothing
more to be said, then, I fancy, except good-bye."

For the first time in that long, long fight the girl weakened. Gropingly
she found the extended hand; but even then the voice was steady.

"Good-bye," she said--and that was all.

CHAPTER VIII

CELEBRATION

It had been a gay dinner, a memorable dinner. The mere ostensible
occasion of its being in celebration of the publication of Steve
Armstrong's first novel, "The Disillusioned," would of itself have been
sufficient reason therefor. In addition, the resignation, by a peculiar
coincidence to take effect the same day, of the former manager of the
Traction Company, Darley Roberts, with a recommendation that was
virtually a command for the advancement of his acting assistant, Harry
Randall, to his place, added another reason no less patent. If a cloud
existed that evening to mar the happiness of those four long-time friends
gathered in commemoration of the dispensation of Providence jointly
enjoyed, it most emphatically had not lifted its head above the surface.
Never had Margery Randall bubbled with more spontaneous abandon; or, even
in the old university days, had Elice Gleason laughed more easily. And as
for Steve Armstrong, the guest of honor, the conquering hero,--it was
his hour and in its intoxicating completeness he had enjoyed it to the
full; had stretched it on and on that he might enjoy it again. Now, the
last course served, the last toast proposed and drunk in inadequate
chocolate, and the two girl friends, after the habit of old
acquaintances, left to their own priv