ples: "No, there are not--now. There is no other
reason--except myself."

"Yourself?"

"Yes, damn it, myself! That's all that remains now to keep me
straight. And I've been so. That may be news to you. Perhaps you don't
believe it."

"Is it so, Jim?" she asked in a voice scarcely audible.

"Yes, it is. And so I shall keep on, and play the game that way--play
it squarely with Vanya, too----"

He had lost his heavy colour; he stood looking at her with a white,
strained, grim expression that tightened the jaw muscles; and she felt
his powerful hand clenching between hers.

"It's no use," he said between his set lips, "I've got to go on--see
it through in my own fashion--this rotten thing called life. I'm
sorry, Marya, that I'm not a better sport----"

A wave of colour swept her face and her hands suddenly crushed his
between them.

"You're wonderful," she said. "I do love you."

But the tense, grey look had come back into his face. Looking at her
in silence, presently his gaze seemed to become remote, his absent
eyes fixed on something beyond her.

"I've a rotten time ahead of me," he said, not knowing he had spoken.
When his eyes reverted to her, his features remained expressionless,
but his voice was almost tender as he said good night once more.

Her hands fell away; he opened the door and went out without looking
back.

He found a taxi at the Plaza. He was swearing when he got into it. And
all the way home he kept repeating to himself: "I'm one of those
cursed, creeping Josephs; that's what I am,--one of those pepless,
sanctimonious, creeping Josephs.... And I always loathed that poor
fish, too!"

CHAPTER XVIII

Shotwell Junior discovered in due course of time the memoranda of the
repeated messages which Palla had telephoned to his several clubs,
asking him to call her up immediately.

It was rather late to do that now, but his pulses began to quicken
again in the old, hopeless way; and he went to the telephone booth and
called the number which seemed burnt into his brain forever.

A maid answered; Palla came presently; and he thought her voice seemed
colourless and unfamiliar.

"Yes, I'm perfectly well," she replied to his inquiry; "where in the
world did you go that night? I simply couldn't find you anywhere."

"What had you wished to say to me?"

"Nothing--except--that I was afraid you were angry when you left, and
I didn't wish you to part with me on such terms. Were you annoyed?"