guessing at the
sort of things people will say and never really quite knowing. And we
have each got the other's fear to suffer under, too.--Oh, Roddy, Roddy,
don't hate me too bitterly ...! But I think if we can both endure it,
stand the gaff, as you said once, and know that the other's standing it,
too, perhaps that'll be the real beginning of the new life."

Somehow or other, during their calmer moments toward the end, practical
details managed to get talked about--settled after a fashion, without
the admission really being made on his part that the thing was going to
happen at all.

"I'd do everything I could of course, to make it easier," she said. "We
could have a story for people that I'd gone to California to make mother
a long visit. You could bring Harriet home from Washington to keep house
while I was gone. I'd take my trunks, you see, and really go. People
would suspect of course, after a while, but they'll always pretend to
believe anything that's comfortable--anything that saves scenes and
shocks and explanations."

"Where would you go, really?" he demanded. "Have you any plan at all?"

"I have a sort of plan," she said. "I think I know of a way of earning a
living."

But she didn't offer to go on and tell him what it was, and after a
little silence, he commented bitterly on this omission.

"You won't even give me the poor satisfaction of knowing what you're
doing," he said.

"I'd love to," she said, "--to be able to write to you, hear from you
every day. But I don't believe you want to know. I think it would be too
hard for you. Because you'd have to promise not to try to get me
back--not to come and rescue me if I got into trouble and things went
badly and I didn't know where to turn. Could you promise that, Roddy?"

He gave a groan and buried his face in his hands. Then:

"No," he said furiously. "Of course I couldn't. See you suffering and
stand by with my hands in my pockets and watch!" He sprang up and seized
her by the arms in a grip that actually left bruises, and fairly shook
her in the agony of his entreaty. "Tell me it's a nightmare, Rose," he
said. "Tell me it isn't true. Wake me up out of it!"

But under the indomitable resolution of her blue eyes, he turned away.
This was the last appeal of that sort that he made.

"I'll promise," she said presently, "to be sensible--not to take any
risks I don't have to take. I'll regard my life and my health and all,
as something I'm keeping in