moter presumably unhampered
by humanitarian ideals.

Amherst knew that this was the answer with which his plea would be met;
knew, moreover, that the plea was given a hearing simply because his
judges deemed it so pitiably easy to refute. But the knowledge, once he
had begun to speak, fanned his argument to a white heat of pleading,
since, with failure so plainly ahead, small concessions and compromises
were not worth making. Reason would be wasted on all; but eloquence
might at least prevail with Bessy....

* * * * *

When, late that night, he went upstairs after long pacings of the
garden, he was surprised to see a light in her room. She was not given
to midnight study, and fearing that she might be ill he knocked at her
door. There was no answer, and after a short pause he turned the handle
and entered.

In the great canopied Westmore couch, her arms flung upward and her
hands clasped beneath her head, she lay staring fretfully at the globe
of electric light which hung from the centre of the embossed and gilded
ceiling. Seen thus, with the soft curves of throat and arms revealed,
and her face childishly set in a cloud of loosened hair, she looked no
older than Cicely--and, like Cicely, inaccessible to grown-up arguments
and the stronger logic of experience.

It was a trick of hers, in such moods, to ignore any attempt to attract
her notice; and Amherst was prepared for her remaining motionless as he
paused on the threshold and then advanced toward the middle of the room.
There had been a time when he would have been exasperated by her
pretense of not seeing him, but a deep weariness of spirit now dulled
him to these surface pricks.

"I was afraid you were not well when I saw the light burning," he began.

"Thank you--I am quite well," she answered in a colourless voice,
without turning her head.

"Shall I put it out, then? You can't sleep with such a glare in your
eyes."

"I should not sleep at any rate; and I hate to lie awake in the dark."

"Why shouldn't you sleep?" He moved nearer, looking down compassionately
on her perturbed face and struggling lips.

She lay silent a moment; then she faltered out: "B--because I'm so
unhappy!"

The pretense of indifference was swept away by a gush of childish sobs
as she flung over on her side and buried her face in the embroidered
pillows.

Amherst, bending down, laid a quieting hand on her shoulder. "Bessy----"

She sobbed on.