pped him.

"I say things wrong," he concluded with a sudden humility that quenched
the spark of anger in her eyes. "I was a fool to quote Harriet, and I
haven't done much better in speaking for myself. I can't make you see."

"Oh, I can see plainly enough, Roddy," she said, with a tired little
grimace that was a sorry reminder of her old smile. "I guess I see too
well. I'm sorry to have hurt you and made you miserable. I knew I was
going to do that, of course, when I went away, but I hoped that after a
while, you'd come to see my side of it. You can't at all. You couldn't
believe that I was happy in that little room up on Clark Street; that I
thought I was doing something worth doing; something that was making me
more nearly a person you could respect and be friends with. And, from
what you've said just now, it seems as if you couldn't believe even that
I was a person with any decent _self_-respect. The notion that I could
blackmail your family into lending me their name and social position to
get me a better job on the stage than I could earn! Or the notion that
I could come back to your house and pretend to be your wife without
even ...!"

The old possibility of frank talk between them was gone. She couldn't
complete the sentence.

"So I guess," she concluded after a silence, "that the only thing for
you to do is to go home and forget about me as well as you can and be as
little miserable about me as possible. I'll tell you this, that may make
it a little easier: you're not to think of me as starving or miserable,
or even uncomfortable for want of money. I'm earning plenty to live on,
and I've got over two hundred dollars in the bank. So, on that score at
least, you needn't worry."

There was a long silence while he sat there twisting the newspaper in
his hands, his eyes downcast, his face dull with the look of defeat that
had settled over it.

In the security of his averted gaze, she took a long look at him. Then,
with a wrench, she looked away.

"You will let me go now, won't you?" she asked. "This is--hard for us
both, and it isn't getting us anywhere. And--and I've got to ask you not
to come back. Because it's impossible, I guess, for you to see the thing
my way. You've done your best to, I can see that."

He got up out of his chair, heavily, tiredly; put on his raincoat and
stood, for a moment, crumpling his soft hat in his hands, looking down
at her. She hadn't risen. She'd gone limp all at once, and wa