love, of anger, of hate. I
tell you I was stunned--I had no emotions concerning you or
myself--after that last scene--only a stupefied, blind necessity to get
away; a groping instinct to move toward home--to make my way home and be
rid for ever of the dream that drugged me! . . . And then--and then--"

"_He_ came," said Selwyn very quietly. "Go on."

But she had nothing more to say.

"Alixe!"

She shook her head, closing her eyes.

"Little girl!--oh, little girl!" he said softly, the old familiar phrase
finding its own way to his lips--and she trembled slightly; "was there
no other way but that? Had marriage made the world such a living hell
for you that there was no other way but _that_?"

"Phil, I helped to make it a hell."

"Yes--because I was pitiably inadequate to design anything better for
us. I didn't know how. I didn't understand. I, the architect of our
future--failed."

"It was worse than that, Phil; we"--she looked blindly at him--"we had
yet to learn what love might be. We did not know. . . . If we could have
waited--only waited!--perhaps--because there _were_ moments--" She
flushed crimson.

"I could not make you love me," he repeated; "I did not know how."

"Because you yourself had not learned how. But--at times--now looking
back to it--I think--I think we were very near to it--at moments. . . .
And then that dreadful dream closed down on us again. . . . And
then--the end."

"If you could have held out," he breathed; "if I could have helped! It
was I who failed you after all!"

For a long while they sat in silence; Mrs. Ruthven's white furs now
covered her face. At last the carriage stopped.

As he sprang to the curb he became aware of another vehicle standing in
front of the house--a cab--from which Mrs. Ruthven's maid descended.

"What is she doing here?" he asked, turning in astonishment to Mrs.
Ruthven.

"Phil," she said in a low voice, "I knew you had taken this place.
Gerald told me. Forgive me--but when I saw you under the awning it came
to me in a flash what to do. And I've done it. . . . Are you sorry?"

"No. . . . Did Gerald tell you that I had taken this place?"

"Yes; I asked him."

Selwyn looked at her gravely; and she looked him very steadily in the
eyes.

"Before I go--may I say one more word?" he asked gently.

"Yes--if you please. Is it about Gerald?"

"Yes. Don't let him gamble. . . . You saw the signature on that check?"

"Yes, Phil."

"Then you understand