to the starting-point. It's discouraging."

"It's written," said Armstrong, simply. "We can't avoid it. With me
you're the starting-point as you're the end, always. Didn't you recognize
yourself so in the last novel?"

The girl settled back in her seat wearily.

"You told me, I recall," she said.

"And in the one before?"

"You told me that also."

Armstrong was observing her steadily.

"You are in the new one too," he said; "the one I've been working on--but
which will never be completed now. You've killed the girl there too,
Elice."

"Steve!" The hands had gone swiftly to the girl's ears, covered them
completely. "I shan't listen. This is worse than folly. It's madness."

"I can't help it," monotonously. "It's myself. I can't avoid being
myself."

"Nor I myself, Steve," very gently. "Can't you realize that?"

The man passed his hand across his eyes as though brushing away something
tangible.

"No, I can't realize anything," he said dully, "except that I love
you--and have lost. This and that the world is dead--and I am alone in
it."

For the second time the girl arose, and even yet quite steadily. But at
last her lips were trembling.

"I think you had better go now," she requested. "I can't stand this much
longer; and besides, to keep it up would do no good that I can see.
To-morrow is Saturday, and if you still feel there is anything you must
say to me I shall be at home all day. But to-night--please go now."

As in a dream, Armstrong arose, obeying her command--as he always obeyed
in small things.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he echoed dully. "I realize I'm only
making matters worse by staying, only getting us farther apart." He
buttoned his coat to the chin and drew on his gloves lingeringly. "If I
were to call to-morrow, though, isn't there a chance that you would be
different? Can't I have even--hope?"

The girl said nothing, did not appear to hear. Subconsciously she was
counting the seconds, almost with prayer; counting until she should be
alone.

But still Armstrong dallied, killing those same seconds wilfully.

"Aren't you going to offer me even hope, Elice?" he repeated. "I'll be
in--hell when I go, without even hope."

It was the final straw, that prophetic suggestion, the snapping straw.
With one gesture of hopeless, impotent misery, of infinite appeal as
well, the girl threw out her hand.

"Go," she pleaded brokenly, "go quickly. There's a limit to everything
and with me