he'd stood confronting her in her mean
little room, his eyes searching her face, all he had been looking for
was a sign of the hunger--the ages-old hunger--that was devouring him.
And when he'd found it, that was enough for him. The great issue that
was to be fought out between them remained intact, but the hunger had to
be satisfied first.

It was hours later, in the very dead of the night, as he sat on the edge
of the bed, with his back to her, that the old sense of outrage and
degradation, almost as suddenly as it had left him, came back. And came
back in a way that made it more intolerable than ever. For the clear
flame of it had lost its clarity; the confidence that had fanned it was
gone--the sense of his own rightness. The irresistible surge of passion
that had carried him off, had destroyed that. The flame smoked and
smoldered.

"Have you anything here," he asked her dully, "besides what will go in
your trunk?"

It was the surliness of his tone, rather than the words themselves, that
startled her.

"No," she said puzzled. "Of course not."

"Then let's throw them into it quickly," he said, "and we'll lock the
thing up. Do you owe any rent?"

"Roddy!" she said. He heard her moving behind him. She struck a match
and lighted the gas. Then came around in front of him and stared at him
in frowning incredulity. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we're going to get out of this abominable place now--to-night.
We're going home. We can leave an address for the trunk. If it never
comes, so much the better."

Again all she could do was to ask him, with a bewildered stammer, what
he meant. "Because," she added, "I can't go home yet. I've--only
started."

"Started!" he echoed. "Do you think I'm going to let this beastly farce
go any further?"

And with that the smoldering fire licked up into flame again. He told
her what had happened in his office this afternoon; told her of the
attitude of his friends, how they'd all known about it--undoubtedly had
come to see for themselves, and, out of pity or contempt, hadn't told
him. He told her how he'd felt, sitting there in the theater; why he'd
waited at the stage door for her. He accused her, as with its
self-engendered heat his wrath burned brighter, of having selected the
thing to do that would hurt him worst, of having borne a grudge against
him and avenged it.

It was the ignoblest moment of his life, and he knew it. The accusations
he was making against her were nothi