rd her, and her glad hands went out to him again.
Very gently he took them; very gently he bent and kissed her cheek.

"That's for good-bye," he said. The voice in which he spoke seemed alien
to his ears, so calm it was, so at variance with his inner turmoil.

"You won't take me with you?"

"No."

"You promised."

"I know." He was not concerned now with verbal differentiations. Truly,
he had promised, wordlessly though it had been. "But I can't."

"You don't care?" she said piteously.

"I care very much. If I cared less--"

"There's some other woman."

"Yes."

Flame leaped in her eyes. "I hope she poisons your life."

"I hope I haven't poisoned yours," he returned, lamely enough.

"Oh, I'll manage to live on," she gibed. "I guess there are other men
in the world besides you."

"Don't make it too hard, Milly."

"You're pitying me! Don't you dare pity me!" A sob rose, and burst from
her. Then abruptly she seized command over herself. "What does it all
matter?" she said. "Go away now and let me change my clothes."

"Are they dry?"

"I don't care whether they're dry or not. I don't care what becomes of
me now." All the sullen revolt of generations of lawlessness was vocal
in her words. "You wait and see!"

Somehow Hal got out of the room, his mind awhirl, to await her
downstairs. In a few moments she came, and with eyes somberly averted
got into the runabout without a word. As they swung into the road, they
met McGuire Ellis and Wayne, who bowed with a look of irrepressible
surprise. During the ride homeward Hal made several essays at
conversation. But the girl sat frozen in a white silence. Only when they
pulled up at her door did she speak.

"I'm going to try to forget this," she said in a dry, hard voice. "You
do the same. I won't quit my job unless you want me to."

"Don't," said Hal.

"But you won't be bothered with seeing me any more. I'll send you Maggie
Breen's letter and the story. I guess I understand a little better now
how she felt when she took the poison."

With that rankling in his brain, Hal Surtaine sat and pondered in his
private study at home. His musings arraigned before him for judgment and
contrast the two women who had so stormily wrought upon his new life.
Esme Elliot had played with his love, had exploited it, made of it a
tinsel ornament for vanity, sought, through it, to corrupt him from the
hard-won honor of his calling. She had given him her lips for a lure;
she had p