terable pain to dear ones; an
ever-gaping wound in fierce family pride; a stain on two generations; an
incurable malady of a once blithe spirit; woe, disaster, and ruin--such is
the punishment awarded by men and women to her who disobeys the social law
and, perhaps with equal lack of volition, obeys the law physiological. The
latter is generally considered the greater crime.

These things passed through Septimus's mind. His ignorance of the ways of
what is, after all, an indifferent, self-centered world exaggerated them.

"You know what it means?" he said tonelessly.

"If I didn't, should I be here?"

He made one last effort to persuade her to take Zora into her confidence.
His nature abhorred deceit, to say nothing of the High Treason he was
committing; a rudiment of common sense also told him that Zora was Emmy's
natural helper and protector. But Emmy had the obstinacy of a weak nature.
She would die rather than Zora should know. Zora would never understand,
would never forgive her. The disgrace would kill her mother.

"If you love Zora, as you say you do, you would want to save her pain,"
said Emmy finally.

So Septimus was convinced. But once more, what was to be done?

"You had better go away, my poor Septimus," she said, bending forward
listlessly, her hands in her lap. "You see you're not a bit of use now. If
you had been a different sort of man--like anyone else--one who could have
helped me--I shouldn't have told you anything about it. I'll send for my
old dresser at the theater. I must have a woman, you see. So you had better
go away."

Septimus walked up and down the room deep in thought. A spinster-looking
lady in a cheap blouse and skirt, an inmate of the caravanserai, put her
head through the door and, with a disapproving sniff at the occupants,
retired. At length Septimus broke the silence:

"You said last night that you believed God sent me to you. I believe so
too. So I'm not going to leave you."

"But what can you do?" asked Emmy, ending the sentence on a hysterical note
which brought tears and a fit of sobbing. She buried her head in her arms
on the sofa-end, and her young shoulders shook convulsively. She was an odd
mixture of bravado and baby helplessness. To leave her to fight her
terrible battle with the aid only of a theater dresser was an
impossibility. Septimus looked at her with mournful eyes, hating his
futility. Of what use was he to any God-created being? Another man, strong
and