itable results.

He married the woman who could, when she had no actual hold on him,
soothe and comfort--not because of his need, but her own. Once, however,
she was placed in a secure position, she cast any need of his aside and
developed myriads of her own.

If Thornton could not force a social position for her, then he must pay
for the luxury of her exile with him. Thornton paid and paid until every
faculty he had was strained to the snapping point. Finally he resorted
to the last and most dangerous aid he had at his disposal--he drank more
than ever before; but even in his extremity he recognized his danger and
always caught himself before the worst overcame him.

Business began to show the effect of private troubles, and then Thornton
remembered the Fletcher fortune; his child, and the possibilities of
making the child a link between money and a growing necessity.

Whatever natural tie there might have been in Thornton's relations with
his child had perished. There was merely a legal one now.

And Thornton, having explained this at great length to his wife, and
finally getting her to agree to assume a responsibility that he swore
should never embarrass her, travelled to New York.

It was a bright, sunny June day when he rang the bell of the Fletcher
home and was admitted, by a trim maid, to the small reception room that
was a noncommittal link between the hall and the drawing room.

Sitting alone in the quiet place, Thornton was conscious of a silvery
_drip, drip_ of water. Sound, like smell, has a power to arouse memory
and control it. Thornton's thoughts flew back to the week he had spent
in this old house with his girl wife. He recalled the sunken room and
the fountain with those wonderful figures modelled after Meredith.

Without taking into account the years and happenings that had made him
more than a stranger to the family he got up and followed a haunting
desire to see the room and the fountain again.

He passed through the drawing room and shrugged his shoulders. It was
arrogant, self-assured--he hated that sort of thing. The dining room was
better--a fine idea as to colour and furniture; the library,
too--Thornton paused and took a comprehensive glance. He liked the
library, and the fireplace was perfect. He made a mental note. Then he
stepped down into the room with its memory-haunting fountain. He had
never seen it in action before, and so clever was the conceit that he
drew back, fearing that