ssed in words.

"In Russia," said he, "every house has its sacred pictures, even the
poorest peasant's hut. They call them ikons. These," waving to the walls,
"were my ikons. What do you think of them?"

For the first time Zora became aware of the furniture and decoration of the
room. The cartoon, the advertisement proofs, the model of Edinburgh Castle,
produced on her the same effect as the famous board in the garden at Fenton
Court. Then, however, she could argue with him on the question of taste,
and lay down laws as the arbiter of the elegancies of conduct. Now he
viewed the sorry images with her own eyes, and he had gone through fire to
attain this clearness of vision. What could be said? Zora the magnificent
and self-reliant found not a word, though her heart was filled with pity.
She was brought face to face with a ridiculous soul-tragedy, remote from
her poor little experience of life. It was no time to act the beneficent
goddess. She became self-conscious, fearful to speak lest she might strike
a wrong note of sympathy. She wanted to give the man so much, and she could
give him so little.

"I'm dying to help you," she said, rather piteously. "But how can I?"

"Zora," he said huskily.

She glanced up at him and he held her eyes with his, and she saw how she
could help him.

"No, don't--don't. I can't bear it."

She rose and turned away. "Don't let us change things. They were so sweet
before. They were so strange--your wanting me as a sort of priestess--I
used to laugh--but I loved it all the time."

"That's why I said I've been a fool, Zora."

The bell of the telephone connected with his manager's office rang
jarringly. He seized the transmitter in anger.

"How dare you ring me up when I gave orders I was to be undisturbed? I
don't care who wants to see me. I'll see nobody."

He threw down the transmitter. "I'm very sorry," he began. Then he stopped.
The commonplace summons from the outer world brought with dismaying
suddenness to his mind the practical affairs of life. He was a ruined man.
The thought staggered him. How could he say to Zora Middlemist: "I am a
beggar. I want to marry you"?

She came to him with both hands outstretched, her instinctive gesture when
her heart went out, and used his Christian name for the first time.

"Clem, let us be friends--good friends--true, dear friends, but don't spoil
it all for me."

When a woman, infinitely desired, pleads like that with glorious eyes, an